ROADSIDE  GLIMPSES 
OF  THE  GREAT  WAR 


ARTHUR    SWE ETSER 


I- 


ROADSIDE   GLIMPSES    OF   THE 
GREAT   WAR 


r^*&° 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON    •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA    •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN   &   CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  •  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


Statist!  - 


5!iMt!u«(| 


l'«^..;  A,**;..Mi  r  ~{-     f.  7-  <t€ 


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/■       '   Id. 


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Probably  the  only  German  military  pass  to  Paris  since  1870. 
Given  to  Mr.  Sweetser  by  the  commandant  at  St.  Quentin. 


ROADSIDE  GLIMPSES  OF 
THE  GREAT  WAR     ^ 


BY 


ARTHUR   SWEETSER 


ILLUSTRATED 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1916 

All  rights  reserved 


\h 


Copyright,  1916, 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  February,  1916. 


Nortoooti  $khb 

J.  B.  Cushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


&0 

MY   MOTHER 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    The  Lure  of  War i 

II.     From  the  French  Lines  to  the  German    .  23 

III.  In  the  Wake  of  Von  Kluck        ...  52 

IV.  Prisoner  of  the  Germans     ....  81 
V.     Prisoner  of  the  French        .        .        .        .105 

VI.     Uhlans  and  Taubes 130 

VII.     A  Report  to  the  State  Department  .        .  148 

VIII.    Germany  in  the  Suburbs  of  Paris      .        .  159 

IX.     Prisoner  Again 180 

X.    How  a  Spy  would  Feel         ....  207 
XI.     From     France's     Calmness     to     Belgium's 

Agony 227 

XII.     Belgium's  Hopeless  Heroism        .        .        .  250 


vu 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


Probably  the  only  German  military  pass  to  Paris 
since  1870.  Given  to  Mr.  Sweetser  by  the 
commandant  at  St.  Quentin 


Frontispiece 


French  mobilization  order.      Bearing  the  imprint  of 

1904      .......  facing 

"  Herr  Arthur  Sweetser  of  Boston    (Mass.)"    is 

allowed  to  go  from  Valenciennes  to  Cambrai, 

from  Solesmes  to  St.  Quentin       .  .  '« 

German  communique  to  the  French 
Ruins  of  Senlis,  twenty-five  miles  from  Paris,  where 

the  mayor  and  sixteen  councilmen  were  shot 

and  the  main  streets  put  to  the  flames  as  Mr. 

Sweetser  bicycled  in  under  guard 
"  Self-styled  journalist  "  is  freed  to  go  to  Paris  after 

having  bicycled  across  the  lines     . 
French  requisition  order  posted  as  inscribed  on  the 

official  bulletin  board   of  Germigny  l'Eveque 
'*  M.  Arthur  Sweetser  living  at  Villers-Cotterets  " 

is  freed  once  more  to  go  to  Paris 
*«  For    five    weeks    Lille    had    been    rasped    to    a 

frazzle  " 


H 


5° 
64 


91 

'43 

173 
226 

237 


IX 


ROADSIDE    GLIMPSES    OF 
THE    GREAT    WAR 

I 

THE   LURE  OF  WAR 

"Flash!"  snapped  the  telegraph  operator  in 
a  voice  set  and  hard  from  an  unparalleled  week's 
strain.  I  jumped  to  the  telegraph  instrument. 
The  operator  spelled  off : 

"G-E.-R-M-A-N-Y  D-E-C-L-A-R-E-S  W~A-R 
O-N    F-R-A-N-C-E." 

The  instrument  was  snapping  angrily.  Opera- 
tors all  over  that  vast  nerve  system  of  the  United 
Press  were  working  as  they  had  never  worked 
before. 

Bulletin.  Berlin,  August  3.  Germany  of- 
ficially Declared  War  on  France  to-day, 
etc.,  etc. 

The  newspaper  world  had  gone  wild.  For  a 
week  we  had  been  standing  on  our  heads.     Servia 

B  1 


2       Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

Refuses  Austria's  Ultimatum,  Russia  Mobi- 
lizes, Germany  Declares  Martial  Law,  Eng- 
lish Fleet  under  Sealed  Orders,  ultimatums, 
mobilizations  flying  back  and  forth,  flashing 
from  capital  to  capital,  jamming  one  on  top  of 
the  other  over  the  wires,  editions  tumbling  out 
as  fast  as  the  presses  could  turn  them  off,  the 
whole  world  in  tumult  —  Great  God,  what  would 
be  the  next  news  ticked  off  ? 

By  noon  of  that  memorable  August  3,  my 
nerves  were  completely  gone.  How  puny  and 
trifling  the  work  of  the  Boston  bureau  of  the 
United  Press  seemed  !  How  absurd  to  sit  there, 
almost  literally  swallowing  cigarettes  from  ex- 
citement, while  the  whole  world  was  going 
wild ! 

"Bert,"  I  said  to  the  operator,  "I'm  going 
over.  I  want  you  to  do  the  little  Bureau  work 
left ;    I'll  get  another  operator  to  take  the  wire." 

It  was  4.30  p.m. 

No,  said  the  steamship  offices,  there's  not  a 
boat  going  from  the  whole  Atlantic  seaboard, 
everything's  cancelled.  What,  I  asked,  Boston 
and  New  York  both  ?     Yes.     Montreal  ?     That's 


The  Lure  of  War  3 

so,  yes,  there  was  a  boat  from  there,  the  Vic- 
torian, sailing  the  next  day  at  10  a.m. 

The  last  train  connecting  left  that  evening 
at  8.30. 

From  4.45  to  8.30  to  get  reservations  and  gold, 
close  the  house,  pack,  and  say  good-by.  And 
all  the  banks  closed  ! 

I  phoned  Thomas  Cook. 

"Please  get  me  ticket  to  Montreal  on  the 
8.30  to-night,  reservation  on  the  Victorian,  some 
gold,  and  hold  the  office  open  till  I  get  there." 

"We  have  no  gold,"  came  the  reply. 

Fortunately  my  cousin  was  head  of  a  large 
brokerage  company.  Gone  for  the  day !  At 
last  I  reached  him  on  the  long  distance.  Yes, 
he  would  make  me  a  personal  loan  and  phone 
the  office  to  stay  open  till  matters  were  arranged. 

On  the  way  down  I  picked  up  Cook's  man, 
who  went  to  witness  the  validity  of  the  check. 
We  tore  back  to  his  office  where  reservations  all 
the  way  to  Liverpool  were  waiting.  Ten  pounds 
and  about  100  francs  was  all  the  gold  they  could 
give  me,  and  that  at  a  terrible  premium.  The 
Cunard  line  added  a  few  pounds  more. 


4       Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

It  was  now  7  p.m.  Only  the  packing  remained. 
A  taxi  rushed  me  home.  By  good  luck,  the 
laundry  had  just  come  back,  and  I  took  the 
whole  package  as  it  was  under  one  arm  and  a 
suitcase  under  the  other.  Unfortunately,  as  I 
found  out  later,  the  laundry  that  week  contained 
no  pajamas,  but  instead  a  large  bed-sheet,  which 
accompanied  me  to  the  front.  There  was  just 
time  at  the  station  to  buy  some  sandwiches  for 
supper,  without  enough  to  say  good-by  to  the 
family  over  the  telephone. 

The  next  morning  I  was  on  the  Allan  line 
steamship  Victorian.  We  dropped  down  the  St. 
Lawrence  to  Quebec. 

"England  declares  war  on  Germany,"  greeted 
us  from  all  the  headlines  as  we  dropped  anchor 
off  the  Chateau  Frontenac.  Three  German 
cruisers  were  reported  off  the  Gulf;  the  time  of 
our  sailing  was  absolutely  unknown.  For  two 
days  we  dangled  at  anchor  there,  and  then, 
under  heavy  convoy,  set  out  in  a  little  fleet  with 
five  other  vessels  to  run  the  gantlet  of  what- 
ever Germans  were  on  the  high  seas.  By  day 
we  were  nearly  invisible  through  a  new  coat  of 


The  Lure  of  War  5 

black  paint ;  by  night  all  leakages  of  light  to  the 
outside  were  made  impossible.  The  windows 
of  the  smoking  room  were  so  heavily  wadded 
with  paper  that  before  the  evening  was  under 
way  it  was  nearly  suffocating.  Only  the  scantiest 
wireless  messages  came  to  us  on  the  trip ;  the 
main  topic  of  conversation  was  the  truth  of  the 
report  that  thirty-five  German  war-vessels  had 
dared  battle  and  been  blown  up. 

At  last  we  came  to  the  coast  of  Ireland,  not 
southern  Ireland  as  is  customary,  but  way  up 
in  the  North.  Wireless  orders  sidetracked  us 
into  an  unknown  little  harbor  for  a  twelve-hour 
wait ;  then  we  were  allowed  to  go  on  again. 
Finally,  we  put  into  Liverpool,  seventeen  days 
after  we  had  set  sail  from  Montreal. 

"One  hundred  thousand  troops  have  landed 
in  France,"  greeted  us  here.  Ten  thousand  more 
were  just  going  out  that  day;  25,000  had  left 
Southampton  in  the  last  twenty-four  hours ;  all 
England  was  moving  to  the  battle-front  in  France. 
The  harbor  simply  teemed  with  excitement.  The 
wharves  were  crowded ;  men  were  swarming  all 
over  the  welter  of  ships   at  the  piers,  everyone 


6       Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

was  rushing,  shouting,  excited.  Even  before  we 
were  allowed  to  land  200  nondescript  human 
derelicts  from  the  wharves  of  the  city  filed  up 
our  gang-plank  with  saws,  hammers,  axes,  mallets, 
and  every  kind  of  tool  of  destruction.  As  we  went 
down  to  Customs,  there  came  to  us  the  noises  of 
pounding  and  ripping  which  indicated  all  too 
well  the  conversion  of  our  good  old  boat  into  a 
commerce-destroyer  or  a  transport.  All  of  us 
rushed  to  the  first  train  to  London ;  all  of  us 
felt  that  there  indeed  we  would  find  the  nerve 
centre  of  the  British  Empire. 

How  magnificent,  how  inspiring  the  soul  of 
Britain  was  in  this  awful  hour  ! 

Though  man  was  involved  in  the  most  direful 
cataclysm  in  history,  though  civilization  was 
suspended,  stock  exchanges  closed,  commerce, 
news  and  travel  discontinued,  though  the  world's 
nations  were  flying  at  each  other's  throats,  and 
12,000,000  men  hunting  each  other  like  wild 
beasts,  even  yet  England  remained  calm.  No 
hysteria,  no  wild  panic  had  shattered  the  English- 
man's  imperturbable   restraint.     Well   indeed   he 


The  Lure  of  War  7 

knew  that  his  magnificent  Empire,  built  up  by 
years  of  self-sacrifice  and  slow  accretion,  might 
come  toppling  to  the  ground ;  yet  hardly  for  a 
second  did  his  self-possession  waver.  For  ten 
years  he  had  watched  the  German  militarist 
storm  rising  across  the  North  Sea ;  for  ten  years 
he  had  been  reconciling  himself  to  the  inevitable 
clash ;  and  when  at  last  it  came  he  took  it  almost 
as  if  for  granted. 

The  self-possession  of  London  during  that  last 
week  of  August,  1914,  was  incredible.  Life  was 
quickened  somewhat;  there  was,  as  it  were,  a 
slight  catching  of  the  breath,  but  hardly  more. 
The  great  English  battle-fleet  tossed  about  in  the 
Channel  awaiting  a  world  battle,  but  London  went 
its  way.  An  Expeditionary  Force  landed  in  France 
for  the  first  time  in  100  years,  yet  London  kept  its 
calm.  Newspaper  extras  came  forth  in  rapid-fire 
succession,  yet  London  remained  imperturbed. 

Now  and  then  a  company  of  soldiers  passed  by. 
There  was  a  swing  and  a  business-like  attitude, 
almost  a  sombreness,  about  them  which  com- 
pelled a  hush  from  the  few  who  stopped  to  watch. 
They  came  from  nowhere  and  disappeared  into 


8       Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

nowhere,  no  bands,  no  flags,  no  cheers ;  only 
tense,  serious  faces.  There  was  tragedy  indeed 
about  this  blind  devotion  to  country ;  yet  one 
thrilled  at  it  as  the  stuff  that  empires  are  made 
of.  Occasionally,  too,  recruits  could  be  seen 
drilling  in  some  of  the  parks  or  machine-guns 
being  moved  across  the  city.  Occasionally,  sen- 
tries were  encountered  pacing  back  and  forth 
with  fixed  bayonets,  as  at  the  Bank  of  England. 
But  except  for  these  few  signs,  one  would  never 
have  guessed  that  the  English  Empire  was  hang- 
ing in  the  balance. 

Yet  do  not  mistake  this  for  indifference.  Far 
from  it ;  London  was  stirred  as  it  had  not  been 
for  a  century.  Everyone  realized  that  a  death 
struggle  was  on ;  that  the  great  world  structure 
which  England  had  raised  up  would  either 
crumble  or  glide  into  smooth  waters  for  another 
ioo  years.  The  spirit  of  England  was  too  well 
tempered  for  hysteria ;  she  set  about  laying 
foundation-stones  for  a  titanic  effort  with  an 
almost  cold  thoroughness.  The  press  was  splen- 
did in  killing  false  reports  and  maintaining 
secrets  of  the  Expeditionary  Force.     The  Prince 


The  Lure  of  War  9 

of  Wales,  the  Queen,  and  the  Queen-Mother  were 
all  busy  gathering  funds  ;  the  people  were  quietly 
organizing  for  their  fearful  task  and  its  yet  more 
fearful  consequences. 

Withal,  the  crisis  drew  forth  all  that  is  finest 
in  English  character.  The  Irish  civil  war  was 
laid  aside.  Several  serious  strikes  were  silently 
suspended.  The  government  was  acclaimed  by 
all  parties  with  tremendous  enthusiasm.  Down 
in  the  deep  reaches  of  the  Empire's  make-up, 
there  was,  moreover,  almost  a  religious  '  fervor 
for  the  war.  The  Kaiser's  challenge  to  English 
Empire,  sea-power,  iand  trade  was  the  obvious 
cause  of  conflict,  of  course,  but  even  beyond  that 
was  a  real  hatred  of  the  system  the  Kaiser  stood 
for,  and  as  German  force  bade  fair  to  impose 
German  militarism  and  lack  of  constitutionalism 
on  unhappy  Belgium,  England's  anger  rose  even 
higher.  As  one  Englishman,  with  true  English 
bluntness,  put  it  to  me : 

"The  Kaiser's  getting  a  bit  too  thick;  it's 
time  to  draw  his  teeth." 

The  capital  of  the  British  Empire  is  grim 
enough  even  in  peace  times,  Heaven  knows,  for 


io     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

the  hard  hand  of  history  and  the  dampening 
fogs  have  left  behind  their  unmistakable  traces. 
Centuries  of  struggle  have  aged  and  matured  her. 
The  Continental  wars  running  back  to  the  roots  of 
history,  the  Napoleonic  cataclysm,  and  within  the 
present  generation,  the  Boer  disasters,  have  scarred 
and  seared  her  spirit  into  a  placidity  and  imper- 
turbability not  unlike  that  of  her  old  towers  and 
castles.  Storms  have  broken  over  her  as  they 
have  broken  over  the  buildings  which  go  to  com- 
pose her,  but  they  cannot  destroy.  They  merely 
further  solemnify  the  weather-beaten  old  city. 

But  to  me,  as  an  American,  a  poor  cousin  as 
it  were,  from  across  the  seas,  the  most  touching 
aspect  was  the  solicitude  expressed  on  all  sides 
for  American  sympathy.  It  was  the  reaching 
out  of  a  nation  in  its  hour  of  peril  for  the  moral 
approval  of  its  nearest  kin.  More  than  this  was 
not  expected,  but  significant  indeed  it  was  of  the 
old  saying  that  blood  is  thicker  than  water,  that 
England,  settling  down  to  a  long  struggle  for 
her  empire,  should  have  looked  with  fond  hope 
for  the  moral  support  of  the  only  people  who 
had  ever  left  her  flag. 


The  Lure  of  War  n 

La  France ! 

With  what  anxiety,  with  what  loving  appre- 
hension we  saw  your  shores  come  slowly  into 
shape  out  of  the  distance  !  How  was  it  indeed 
that  we  should  find  you  now  that  the  Prussian 
hordes  were  once  more  after  forty  years  flooding 
across  the  frontiers  ?  As  our  little  Channel 
boat  danced  gracefully  over  a  kindly  sea,  we 
strained  our  eyes  as  if  instinctively  to  sense  the 
spirit  which  moved  you,  calmness  or  panic,  con- 
fidence or  fear.  In  an  incredibly  short  time  we 
glided  gently  alongside  the  pier  at  Boulogne. 

Flags,  crowds,  soldiers,  noise,  bustle,  excite- 
ment, burst  upon  us  in  one  animated,  perpetual- 
motion,  ever-shifting  medley.  Boulogne  was  a 
seething  camp,  crammed  with  nervous  humanity, 
smothered  in  fluttering  flags.  It  might  have 
been  a  great  gala  day,  a  big  festival,  if  one  could 
judge  by  the  hubbub  and  excitement.  The  calm, 
the  self-possession,  the  stolidity  from  which  we  had 
just  come  faded  away  into  a  mere  vague  memory. 

Could  it  be  —  yes  —  by  George  it  was  —  a 
group  of  Tommies  strolling  along  the  pier.  Tom- 
mies !     At  last   the  Great  Mystery  was   solved. 


12     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

So  here  it  was  then  that  England's  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  troops  had  gone ;  hither  it  had  been 
that  these  silent  battalions  had  marched  off 
through  the  night.  For  ten  days  all  England  had 
known  that  something  was  going  on  under  the 
surface  which  could  not  be  mentioned ;  for  ten 
days  the  papers  had  maintained  silence  while 
65,000  men  were  spirited  across  to  the  Continent. 

Tommies  were  everywhere,  walking,  riding,  on 
the  street  corners,  alone,  in  groups,  or  joking 
with  the  natives.  The  women  and  girls  had 
received  them  with  all  the  ardor  possible  to 
French  enthusiasm;  had  at  first  embraced  and 
kissed  them,  and  later  flirted  outrageously  with 
them,  till  as  one  of  the  Tommies  put  it  to  me : 

"It  was  jolly  fine  fun  for  a  while,  but  we're 
getting  awful  fed  up  with  it  now." 

The  first  to  arrive  had  been  literally  showered 
with  flowers  as  they  marched  through  streets 
bedecked  with  English  flags  to  their  camps. 
Such  wild  enthusiasm  had  never  been  seen  before, 
they  told  me.  The  freedom  of  the  city  was  theirs 
in  every  way.  And  yet  withal,  the  Tommies 
remained  indifferent,  almost  stoical.     They  were 


The  Lure  of  War  13 

friendly,  perhaps  a  little  curious  to  know  why 
anyone  "Was  kicking  up  such  a  beastly  fuss  "  and 
rather  coolly  amused  at  the  great  hit  the  Scotties 
made  with  their  kilties.  But  beyond  that  they 
were  rather  bored  with  it  all.  Evidently  they 
had  come  over  to  fight  and  did  not  know  how  to 
be  frivolous. 

No  less  than  five  times  I  had  to  show  my  pass- 
port before  I  could  leave  for  Paris,  once  on 
landing,  then  at  Customs,  on  entering  the  station, 
on  getting  a  ticket,  and  finally  on  boarding  the 
train.  We  left  Boulogne  at  7.30  and  should 
have  arrived  at  the  capital  at  11.30.  Instead 
we  hitched,  poked,  and  shunted  along  in  ner- 
vous gasps,  while  troop-trains  rumbled  by  under 
right  of  way.  At  last  we  arrived  at  Amiens, 
where  our  train  was  commandeered  and  we  were 
herded  into  another.  There  for  three  solid  hours 
we  stuck.  Heavy  troop-trains  ground  in,  rested 
a  minute,  and  ground  out  again.  Small  knots 
of  nerve-worn,  exhausted  Frenchmen  gathered 
under  the  flaring  station  lamps  to  speed  them  on 
with  sincere  but  rather  wan  cheers.  Tommies, 
blinking  with  sleepiness,   smiled  out  of  the  cars 


14     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

where  they  were  penned  like  cattle,  or  waved 
farewell  from  among  the  snorting  artillery  horses. 
Occasionally  there  intervened  a  long,  grim,  silent 
train  with  the  hungry  barrels  of  heavy  artillery 
pointing  forward  out  of  the  tarpaulin  as  if  already 
snuffing  blood.  Inexorable  indeed.  How  many, 
I  wondered,  of  those  cheerful  Tommies  were 
going  but  to  their  graves  ? 

At  2.15  a.m.  we  resumed  our  way  once  more. 
Four  of  us,  cramped  in  a  small  compartment, 
knotted  up  and  slept  what  little  we  could  between 
snaps,  jerks,  and  whistles.  As  dawn  broke,  we 
looked  out  to  see  the  whole  countryside  alive 
with  red-pantalooned,  blue-coated  French  sol- 
diers, infantry,  cavalry,  and  artillery,  moving 
through  the  chill  dampness  direct  across  fields 
and  over  dales.     War  never  sleeps. 

At  last,  one  minute  past  7  a.m.  we  arrived  in 
Paris,  almost  twelve  hours  after  we  had  started 
on  a  three-hour  run. 

One  who  loved  Paris  could  not  but  be  filled 
with  anxiety  during  those  first  few  days  as  to 
what  she   should  be  in  her  hour  of  trial.     The 


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de  ees  armees. 

Le  premier  jour  de  In  m      /lisalion  est  le  — 


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appartetiant  : 

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SEBVICES   «>nm.i«rat!i. 

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L.  s  Autorites  ch-iles  et  mtlitaires  Bont  resp^nsahles  de  lexecuLion  du  preBent  decret 


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French  mobilization  order.     Bearing  the  imprint  of  1904. 


The  Lure  of  War  15 

war  was  now  but  three  weeks  old  ;  the  Germans 
were  just  beginning  to  leak  through  Belgium; 
the  first  hysteria  of  excitement  had  changed  into 
the  mechanical  reasoning  of  campaigns.  How 
indeed  would  Paris  act,  Paris  the  gay,  the  care- 
free, the  irresponsible  ? 

At  first  all  seemed  much  as  before.  The 
boulevards  were  crowded.  Women  brought  their 
knitting  to  the  Champs-d'Elysees  as  they  had 
always  done ;  men  were  in  evidence  in  plenty. 
The  city  was  nearly  smothered  in  flags.  Every 
building,  nay  almost  every  window,  boasted  its 
tricolor.  Sprinkled  generously  among  them  were 
not  a  few  English  flags,  many  Belgian,  and  now 
and  then  a  Russian.  At  first  the  capital  of 
France  seemed  festive. 

Slowly,  however,  the  change  flooded  over  me. 
Everything  was  tense  and  sombre.  People  looked 
stern  and  serious.  The  cafe  and  boulevard  crowds 
no  longer  whiled  away  the  hours  nonchalantly; 
they  talked  in  low,  serious  tones  with  hardly  a 
smile.  Never  was  there  the  agitation  of  former 
days  except  when  an  extra  was  screamed  through 
the  streets ;    then  everyone  became  excited  and 


1 6     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

the  pages  were  scanned  eagerly,  fruitlessly.  It 
seemed  indeed  as  though  Paris  lay  hushed  and 
still  awaiting  the  next  extra.  Apparently  that 
was  the  one  real  reason  why  people  continued  to 
go  to  the  cafes  and  boulevards. 

On  shop  after  shop  were  signs  "Mobilise"  or 
"Ferme  pour  la  Mobilisation."  Theatres,  mov- 
ing-picture houses,  and  many  shops  were  closed. 
Evidences  of  the  cessation  of  ordinary  living  chilled 
one  at  every  turn.  Troops  were  everywhere,  in 
the  cafes,  in  the  Bois,  or  marching  through  the 
streets.  Always  they  were  given  preference,  as 
much  in  entering  trams  as  in  the  graces  of  the 
hero-loving  French  women.  The  sale  of  absinthe 
had  been  forbidden.  That  curse  under  which 
France  had  struggled  for  years  was  thrown  off 
with  one  great  moral  convulsion.  Above  all  the 
national  health  must  be  conserved.  The  demi- 
monde also  suffered.  Comediennes,  models,  and 
others  upon  whom  a  pleasure-loving  public  had 
long  frivolled  its  surplus  savings  were  now  re- 
duced to  a  terrible  struggle  for  existence.  It  is 
thus  indeed  that  society  in  time  of  stress  casts  off 
its  parasites. 


The  Lure  of  War  17 

But  it  was  at  night  that  the  terrible  changes 
stood  out  most  sombrely.  Where  before  Paris 
had  once  bedecked  herself  in  myriad  lights  there 
was  naught  but  dulness.  What  had  been  long 
scintillating  rows  of  cafes  where  care-free  people 
dallied  tinkling  glasses  through  the  long  evening, 
had  ceased  to  be.  It  was  now  only  the  bare 
business  of  eating.  By  9  o'clock  the  outer  chairs 
on  the  sidewalks  were  collected  and  piled  up ; 
by  9.30  every  cafe  was  closed  as  black  as  a  tomb. 
The  few  people  still  out  hastened  surreptitiously 
home  through  the  darkened  streets. 

Paris  waited,  waited,  patiently  at  first,  then 
nervously,  for  the  news  which  was  not  given. 
Up  North  something  was  happening,  big  events 
were  shaping  themselves  in  Belgium.  There 
was  much  enthusiasm  about  the  holding  out  of 
Liege,  and  not  a  little  wonderment  that  the 
Germans  were  nevertheless  miles  south  of  there. 
News  trickled  down  atom  by  atom,  never  com- 
plete or  satisfactory,  always  late,  always  vague. 
Criticism  at  times  was  harsh,  especially  when 
the  plan  to  send  five  correspondents,  including 
an  A.   P.   and    a  U.   P.   man,   was    continuously 


1 8     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

postponed.  Many  Parisians  felt  they  were  being 
treated  like  children,  and  asked  if  they  had  not 
shown  themselves  big  enough  to  stand  disaster. 
Had  it  not  been  for  a  tremendous  fundamental 
confidence  in  French  arms  and  in  a  combination 
of  an  appreciation  of  the  military  need  for  se- 
crecy and  the  feeling  that  no  news  is  good  news, 
Paris  would  certainly  have  lost  its  head.  As  it 
was  the  German  avalanche  was  on  them  almost 
before  they  suspected  it. 

During  these  first  three  weeks,  for  default  of 
anything  better,  Belgium,  Liege,  England,  and 
Russia  filled  the  papers.  The  bravery  of  Bel- 
gium served  as  a  beacon  light  for  the  French. 
That  gallant  little  country  was  hailed  with  an 
air  of  reverence.  Likewise  the  calm,  solid  sup- 
port of  England  steadied  the  French  tremendously 
and  made  them  feel  the  ground  firm  underneath 
them.  The  awesome  union  of  France,  England, 
Russia,  Belgium,  Japan,  and  Servia  in  one  great 
concert  against  Germany  glorified  the  French 
conception  of  the  war  almost  into  religious  fervor. 

Paris  indeed  had  become  a  new  city.  The 
mirth    and    song    of    her    life    had    ceased.     The 


The  Lure  of  War  19 

blight  of  war  had  penetrated  to  her  very  marrows. 
The  light  and  sparkle  had  gone,  but  in  their  place 
had  come  a  bigger  and  finer  thing.  The  veneer 
of  frivolity,  irresponsibility,  and  excess  had  been 
scraped  off.  There  stood  revealed  a  patriotism, 
a  self-sacrifice,  a  determination  almost  glorious  in 
their  intensity.  The  strength  of  a  nation  which 
had  been  waiting  for  forty  years  was  ready  — 
splendidly  husbanded,  splendidly  directed,  and 
strong  in  the  memories  of  Austerlitz  and  Jena. 
It  was  this  spirit  which  made  my  waiter  say  : 

"Monsieur,  I  go  to  mobilize  to  bring  back  my 
grandfather  who  fell  in  '70." 

Five  days  passed  almost  in  a  twinkling.  No 
sooner  however  did  I  begin  to  feel  at  home  in  the 
new  Paris  than  the  great  events  outside  called 
me.  Paris  was  grand  indeed,  but  it  was  not  to 
see  Paris  that  I  had  come  abroad.  A  vague  but 
dominant  force  rose  within  me;  I  could  not  sit 
idly  by  in  cafes  while  world  history  was  being 
decided  in  the  country  just  outside. 

I  don't  know  what  it  was ;  whether  it  was  that 
stupefying,  bewildered  confusion  which  brings  the 
moth  to  the  flame,  or  the  nervous,  uncontrollable 


20     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

curiosity  of  our  American  life ;  but  certain  it  is 
that  I  was  helpless  against  that  appeal.  My 
whole  heart  and  soul  was  trajected  out  of  Paris 
to  the  dim,  hazy  fields  of  Belgium  whence  now 
and  then  the  censor  let  escape  a  real  spark  from 
the  roaring  furnace  beneath.  What  was  happen- 
ing behind  that  thick  veil  ? 

More  and  more  often  I  dropped  into  the  Ameri- 
can embassy  which  was  even  still  an  uproar  of 
ill-behaved,  stranded  fellow-countrymen  and  weak, 
rather  frightened  Austrian  and  German  civilians 
who  had  come  under  our  care.  I  asked  first  one 
official,  then  another,  till  finally  I  screwed  up 
courage  to  speak  to  Captain  Parker  himself,  the 
military  attache. 

"  Lille  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  But  what  in  Heaven's 
name  do  you  want  to  go  there  for  ?" 

"Why,"  I  stammered,  not  quite  sure  myself, 
"I  remember  reading  somewhere  that  it's  a 
fortified  city." 

"Yes,  but  it  may  be  attacked  any  time." 

"  I  know,"  I  answered  desperately.  "That's 
why  I  want  to  go  there.  The  Germans  are 
pretty  sure  to  pass  that  way  from  Belgium." 


The  Lure  of  War  21 

"But,  my  dear  man,"  Captain  Parker  burst 
out,  "you  could  never  get  there.  Not  even  a  rab- 
bit could  get  through  to  Lille." 

"Why  not?"  I  asked.  "Is  there  any  rule 
against  it  ?" 

"Common-sense  ought  to  tell  you,"  he  added 
stiffly.  "Common-sense;  this  is  war.  Not  even 
a  rabbit  could  get  by  now." 

Thereupon  I  went  to  Phil  Simms,  Paris 
manager  of  the  United  Press.  He  at  least  would 
encourage  me.  He  knew  France,  for  he  had 
been  there  six  years. 

"Lille!"  he  exclaimed.  "Good  Lord,  you 
might  as  well  try  to  break  into  Heaven.  You've 
got  as  much  chance  as  a  snowball  in  hell." 

"But  how  do  you  know?"  I  persisted. 

"Know,  you  darn  fool,  why,  this  is  war;  war, 
real  war.  The  French  don't  allow  tourist  parties. 
Where's  your  common-sense  ?" 

"Common-sense"  again;  that  was  too  much.  I 
too  figured  that  it  was  war  and  that  everything 
was  topsy-turvy.  The  most  expected  would  fail 
to  happen ;  the  least  expected  was  quite  likely  to 
happen.     So  I  went  to  the  railroad  station. 


22     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

"Third  class  to  Lille."     This  was  said  boldly. 

"Oui,  monsieur,  fourteen  francs,  please,"  and 
the  ticket  was  handed  out  to  me. 

"No  rules,  restrictions,  passports?"    I  asked. 

"No,  monsieur,  why  should  there  be?" 

"Common-sense,"  I  almost  ejaculated,  but 
didn't.  And  I  walked  confusedly  out  thinking 
of  Captain  Parker's  rabbit  and  Simms'  snowball. 


II 

FROM    THE    FRENCH    LINES     TO     THE 

GERMAN 

The  next  day,  I  was  on  the  train  for  Lille, 
straight  up  to  the  North,  straight  towards  the 
Belgian  border,  straight  to  the  heart  of  that 
world-struggle  from  which  we  had  seen  only 
chance  sparks.  I  had  set  out  under  the  flush  of 
the  "glories  of  war,"  thrilled  with  thoughts  of 
flags  borne  forward,  bugles  sounding  charges 
men  doing  triumphs  of  bravery,  shells,  smoke, 
flashes  filling  the  air  in  one  mighty  splendor. 

Towards  Cambrai,  we  saw  the  first  of  it.  We 
were  on  the  main  line  of  communications  both 
to  Paris  and  to  England.  Train  after  train  of 
soldiers,  both  French  and  English,  rushed  past. 
Snatches  of  song,  the  Marseillaise,  Rule  Bri- 
tannia, or  friendly  greetings  or  jests  in  broken 
French  and  English  floated  back  to  us.  Thou- 
sands of  men,  smiling  and  laughing,  were  rushing 

23 


24     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

on  to  annihilate  their  fellow-men.  Did  one  not 
realize  the  horrible  business  of  it  all,  the  songs 
and  jokes  might  have  made  it  appear  almost  a 
colossal  game ;  but  as  it  was,  the  cheery  faces 
only  heightened  the  immutability  of  the  forces 
which  drove  them  on.  Our  train  hitched  on, 
siding  by  siding.  Every  mile  or  so  we  stopped, 
backed  on  to  an  odd  track,  and  gave  right  of  way 
to  a  rushing  troop-train.  Always  we  alighted  to 
see  anything  that  was  to  be  seen  and  to  enjoy  the 
warm  sunshine  of  a  beautiful  day.  Just  south  of 
Marcoing,  those  who  were  first  to  alight  shouted  : 

"Les  canons,  les  canons." 

The  rumble  of  artillery  came  clearly  to  us  out 
of  the  distance.  Great  Heavens,  the  Germans 
were  well  inside  France!  What  had  happened 
in  Belgium  ?  How  had  they  broken  through  ? 
What,  even  now,  was  going  on  in  that  spot 
towards  which  we  strained  our  eyes  ?  Did  this 
tragic  breaking  of  the  silence  in  which  we  had 
lived  presage  another  Sedan  ? 

For  two  hours  we  remained  on  that  siding. 
Occasionally  a  German  aeroplane  was  visible  on 
the   distant   sky,   circling   around   like   an   angry 


From  the  French  Lines  to  the  German     25 

vulture  seeking  the  prey's  weak  spot.  Train 
after  train  rushed  by  us.  Curiously  enough,  all 
those  going  out  were  British,  all  those  coming 
back  were  French.  Apparently  the  Tommies 
were  going  out  to  hold  the  Germans  while  the 
French  reformed  below.  Little  we  realized  it  at 
the  time,  but  the  battle  we  were  there  hearing 
from  a  distance  was  that  of  Cateau-Cambrai, 
where  Sir  John  French's  valiant  Expeditionary 
Force  just  escaped  annihilation. 

Soon  came  the  first  wounded,  Englishmen 
huddled  into  common  cattle-cars,  having  had 
only  the  most  rudimentary  treatment  out  front, 
and  with  no  one  to  care  for  them  on  the  way. 
Those  in  view  were  wounded  in  every  conceiv- 
able fashion,  arms,  legs,  and  bodies,  while  behind 
closed  doors  lay  men  even  then  perhaps  breath- 
ing their  last.  It  had  been  literally  a  slaughter, 
they  told  us.  On  Sunday,  25,000  British  had 
been  entrenching  near  Mons  when  a  German 
aeroplane  spied  them.  Twenty  minutes  later 
125,000  Germans  were  on  them.  The  artillery 
fire  was  fearful  beyond  words ;  whole  divisions 
perished  to  a  man;    the  19th  Hussars  who  alone 


26     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

could  charge  were  completely  obliterated.  Finally 
the  British  retreated  and  the  Germans  ran  into  a 
trap.  The  French  cut  in  on  their  flank.  What 
then  happened  Heaven  knows.  Not  a  man  I 
saw  from  the  front  that  day  but  felt  amazement 
at  the  Germans'  mighty  military  prowess ;  with 
some  it  was  a  mania. 

The  men  returning  from  the  front  had  a  sad- 
ness, a  pathos,  a  bewilderment  in  their  expres- 
sions which  all  too  well  bespoke  the  whirlpool 
into  which  they  had  been  drawn.  There  was  a 
blankness  and  a  dulness  in  their  eyes  which  be- 
tokened almost  complete  mental  dismay.  The  re- 
actions of  many  of  them  were  too  unreasonable, 
too  out  of  perspective  to  be  believed.  Many, 
kindly  and  gentle  in  appearance,  boasted  to  me 
of  the  most  gruesome  of  deeds  —  deeds  which 
ordinarily  would  have  shocked  them,  even  in  the 
telling.  That  delicate  something  within  man, 
call  it  soul,  spirit,  psychology,  what  you  will, 
had  in  thousands  of  cases  been  smashed  so  com- 
pletely that  future  generations  will  suffer  far 
more  from  its  effects  than  from  all  the  physical 
injuries  and  disabilities  put  together. 


From  the  French  Lines  to  the  German     27 

One  Tommie  I  remember  who  had  been  in  a 
bayonet  charge  just  before.  He  was  leaning 
listlessly  against  the  door  of  the  car,  his  eyes 
fixed  in  unseeing  gaze  on  an  open  field  beyond. 
A  sadness  enshrouded  his  still  figure  which  made 
me  hesitate  to  intrude.  As  I  spoke  in  a  low, 
impersonal  voice,  he  looked  up  indifferently,  and 
relapsed  almost  at  once  into  absorption.  Then 
unexpectedly,  in  droning,  mechanical  fashion,  he 
told  me  how  his  company  had  become  trapped 
in  the  trenches  by  a  German  crossfire. 

"We  were  going  down  like  flies,"  he  said, 
"and  it  would  have  been  the  end  of  all  of  us  to 
have  stayed  any  longer  in  that  trap,  with  machine- 
guns  squirting  on  us  from  both  ends.  About  the 
only  thing  we  could  do  was  to  make  a  run  straight 
at  'em  —  at  least  we'd  die  standing  up.  God 
knows  anything  was  better  than  crouching  there 
till  we  were  all  cleaned  out.  We  couldn't  even 
fight,  it  was  just  waiting." 

By  now  the  dulness  had  left  his  eye,  and  a 
ring  come  into  his  voice. 

"It's  funny,"  he  went  on,  "how  little  things 
count.     When   the   order   came,    I   jumped   over 


28     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

the  earthworks  and  then  went  sprawling  over  a 
head  of  cabbage.  It  seemed  as  though  I'd  never 
get  to  my  feet  again.  Bullets  were  nipping  all 
about  me;  the  enemy's  trenches  looked  like  a 
long  line  of  red ;  seemed  to  me  I  was  as  big  as  a 
giant  with  some  one  catching  at  my  feet  and  all 
those  guns  going  at  me  alone. 

"I  don't  remember  much  more.  There  was 
one  big  final  crash  and  I  leaped  on  the  top  of 
the  trench  and  began  to  stab.  Once  I  remember 
reaching  out  to  get  at  someone  and  stepping  on 
the  face  of  a  dead  man  at  my  feet.  God  knows 
how  long  it  lasted  —  not  long  I  fancy,  for  then 
they  broke  and  ran. 

"It  was  an  awful  mess  all  about.  Dead  and 
wounded  all  mixed  up  —  lots  of  Germans  and 
many  of  us.  Then  those  bloody  machine-guns 
opened  on  us  again.  I  tried  to  pull  one  of  our 
fellows  into  shelter,  but  my  right  arm  was  out  of 
commission.  First  I  thought  I  was  wounded. 
Then  it  came  to  me.  I'd  been  swinging  my 
bayonet  so  hard  there  wasn't  any  strength 
left." 

His  eyes  clouded  again. 


From  the  French  Lines  to  the  German     29 

"My  God,"  he  went  on  softly,  "if  I  could 
only  forget.  It's  all  a  nightmare  now  —  still  I 
can't  help  wondering  —  maybe  the  blows  didn't 
get  home  —  maybe — " 

He  turned  his  face  away. 

Two  hours  later  we  started  on  our  way  again, 
not  on  towards  Lille,  for  that  road  was  indeed 
blocked,  but  back  in  a  wide  sweep  to  Amiens. 
Our  carriage,  before  badly  crowded,  was  jammed 
almost  to  suffocation  by  the  cramming  in  of 
eighteen  Belgian  refugees,  driven  they  knew  not 
whither.  Opposite  me  was  an  old  lady  with 
seared  face,  bright  sparkling  eyes,  and  a  white 
ruffled  bonnet  tied  under  her  chin.  She  was  at 
least  eighty-five  years  old,  and,  I  wager,  had 
never  before  left  home.  With  her  were  several 
big  scrawny  men  with  rough  farmers'  shirts  and 
finger-nails  fresh  from  the  soil,  three  young  girls, 
and  a  various  assortment  of  children. 

Only  two  days  before  they  had  been  wakened 
in  the  blackness  of  night  by  the  screeching  of 
German  shells  bombarding  Charleroi.  They  had 
had  only  time  to  gather  their  children  before 
fleeing  pell-mell,  penniless,  and  without  food  into 


30     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

the  darkness.  For  a  whole  day  they  had  had 
nothing  to  eat.  At  last  at  4  o'clock  we  came  to  a 
station  where  French  soldiers  rushed  joyously  to 
them  with  bread.  That  scene  was  only  one  of 
the  tiny  back-eddies  of  war,  it  is  true,  but  it 
went  into  the  very  depths  of  human  emotions. 
Three  Frenchmen  in  the  carriage  with  me  actually 
had  tears  in  their  eyes,  and  told  the  sufferers  that 
they  had  only  to  show  their  colors  in  France  to 
receive  the  bounty  of  a  grateful  nation. 

At  last  at  10  p.m.,  twelve  hours  after  we  had 
left  Paris,  we  ground  heavily  into  the  big  station 
at  Amiens.  What  a  sight !  Wave  upon  wave  of 
refugees  wandering  aimlessly  under  the  flare  of 
the  arc  lamps,  French  and  British  soldiers  here 
and  there  in  groups,  train  upon  train  steaming  in, 
hitching  about,  and  then  running  out  into  the 
blackness,  —  such  was  the  chaos  and  confusion 
about  us.  Black-robed  ministers  and  priests 
were  stalking  about  to  administer  the  last  rites ; 
a  long  Red  Cross  train  with  steam  up  waited  for 
the  next  load  from  the  North. 

The  refugees,  homeless  and  crazed  with  fear  for 
loved  ones  left  behind,  walked  about  distractedly 


From  the  French  Lines  to  the  German     31 

or  sought  sleep  on  the  hard  platform  floors. 
Women  lay  on  the  few  bundles  which  remained 
of  all  their  worldly  goods.  Children  were  curled 
up  beside  large  packs.  Once,  stepping  over  a 
prostrate  sleeper  I  put  my  foot  squarely  into  his 
derby  hat,  lying  at  his  stomach.  And  when  at 
last  I  arrived  at  the  lunchroom  I  found  there  was 
nothing  to  be  had  but  a  few  cakes  and  chocolate, 
not  very  substantial  food  indeed  for  my  only 
meal  since  breakfast. 

Two  long  hours  we  stayed  there,  waiting. 
Still  that  silent  death's  procession  to  and  from 
the  front.  What  was  happening  out  there 
through  the  blackness  ?  At  last  we  got  under 
way,  Heaven  knew  whither,  except  that  it  was 
in  the  general  direction  of  the  battle.  All  night 
long  we  hitched  our  way  northward,  constantly 
being  sided  for  troop-trains,  and  several  times 
stopping  for  nearly  an  hour  in  the  blackness  of 
the  open  country.  Somehow  I  dared  not  sleep, 
but  preferred  to  stay  awake  while  darkness  faded 
into  dawn  and  dawn  into  daylight. 

At  7  o'clock  our  train  ended  its  weary  way 
almost   with   a   groan   of   satisfaction.     I   looked 


32     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

out  to  see  an  odd  little  town  of  white  walls  and 
red  roofs,  absolutely  foreign  to  anything  French. 
In  considerable  bewilderment  I  turned  to  a  French 
reservist  who  had  just  come  back  from  the 
cotton-mills  at  Woonsocket,  Rhode  Island. 

"Where  in  the  world  is  this  place?"    I  asked. 

"Hazebrouck." 

"Where  the  devil  is  that?" 

"Flanders." 

"But  what  the  devil  is  it  built  like  ?" 

"Flemish." 

"But  what  in  the  name  of  goodness  are  we 
stopping  for  ?" 

"It's  our  destination." 

"Destination!"  I  exclaimed.    "Where's  Lille  ?" 

"Twenty-five  kilometers  East." 

"Aren't  we  going  there?" 

"No,  it's  on  another  line." 

"But  what  in  the  name  of  Heaven  are  we  going 
to  do  then?" 

"Wait." 

"And  the  battle,  the  war  —  stay  cooped  up 
here?" 

"Je  ne  sais  pas,  Monsieur." 


From  the  French  Lines  to  the  German     33 

And  we  landed  at  the  little  Flemish  town  of 
Hazebrouck,  just  on  the  edge  of  Belgium,  twenty- 
five  kilometers  from  Lille,  and  twenty-three  hours 
after  leaving  Paris. 

At  once  we  went  to  the  prefect  of  police,  a 
small  army  of  about  twenty-five  reservists  and 
myself.  Rather  ominously  I  was  held  till  the  last. 
The  prefect  was  a  very  self-important  person  with  a 
long  black  beard  and  snapping  eyes.  The  moment 
he  saw  Uncle  Sam's  big  red  seal,  he  snorted  loudly, 
drove  out  the  French-American  who  had  stayed 
to  help  me,  settled  back  in  his  chair,  and  flew  at 
me  with  a  volley  of  French  which  I  could  no  more 
stem  than  I  could  have  stemmed  Niagara  Falls. 
I  stuttered  out  that  I  was  an  American,  and  then, 
with  no  idea  of  what  the  passport  was,  he  settled 
his  big  seal  on  it  and  herded  me  out  of  the  office. 
Lille  was  open ;  the  rabbit  or  the  snowball  was 
safe. 

But  that  was  by  no  means  getting  there. 
After  a  horrible  breakfast  and  an  earnest  attempt 
to  remove  a  little  of  the  night's  grime  by  aid  of 
a  faucet  in  a  dirty  back  yard,  we  went  to  the 
station.      No    trains    would    run    all    morning. 


34     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

Great  Heavens,  marooned  in  a  sleepy  village, 
twenty-five  kilometers  from  the  centre  of  world 
history.  The  only  way  I  could  keep  my  temper 
and  my  wakefulness  was  to  write  all  morning  as 
I  had  written  all  night. 

By  lunch-time  even  the  Frenchmen  were  worn 
out  with  waiting.  Two  set  out  for  Lille  on  foot ; 
others  hired  the  town's  one  automobile.  Both 
twenty-five  kilometers  and  twenty-five  francs 
seemed  big  to  me,  but  it  was  another  long  time 
before  I  ran  down  a  messenger  who  was  just  about 
to  drive  back  to  Lille.  An  interminable  ride  it  was, 
after  our  sleepless  night,  for  from  3  to  8  we  jolted 
along  in  a  tireless,  springless  wagon.  My  only  mem- 
ories are  of  heroic  efforts  not  to  jounce  on  to  the 
road  in  my  sleep,  of  interminable  stops  for  beer  at 
red-tiled  inns  dotting  a  magnificently  rich  country, 
and  of  a  pretty  French  woman  nursing  a  won- 
drous golden-haired  child,  who  asked  if  we  spoke 
English  in  America  or  had  a  language  of  our  own. 

At  the  little  town  of  Armentieres  we  descended 
from  our  good  wagon  and  waited  around  in  the 
cold  damp  rain  for  a  tram  which  by  some  acci- 
dent  was    still   running   spasmodically.     Another 


From  the  French  Lines  to  the  German     35 

half  hour  and  we  were  in  Lille,  the  city  to  which 
not  even  a  rabbit  could  go,  the  city  the  chances 
of  reaching  which  were  as  good  as  "a  snowball's 
in  hell." 

Lille  had  stopped  completely,  no  work,  no  play, 
only  waiting.  For  seven  days  there  had  been 
no  trains,  no  mail,  no  telegraph,  no  government. 
Not  a  soldier  remained,  for  the  forts  had  been 
dismantled,  the  garrison  withdrawn,  the  city 
decreed  open  and  unfortified.  No  defence  was 
possible ;  the  higher  strategy  felt  it  necessary  to 
sacrifice  the  city  to  greater  ends.  Big  flaring 
posters  begged  the  citizens  to  be  peaceful  when 
the  Germans  entered. 

The  papers  came  out  intermittently,  always 
without  news.  The  only  news  at  all  was  that 
borne  of  supercharged  imaginations.  For  all 
that  was  known  France  might  have  ceased  to 
exist.  Wild  rumors,  both  of  victory  and  defeat, 
sprang  from  nowhere,  surcharged  the  air,  encom- 
passed the  city.  Memories  of  1870  and  wild 
stories  from  Belgium  made  all  Lille  quiver  like  a 
raw  nerve.  Suspense  hung  like  a  pall  over  the 
city.       Something    must    happen.       It    was    as 


36     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

though  a  giant  genii  had  mummified  all  life  into 
inactivity. 

During  my  stay  reports  of  a  few  stray  Uhlans 
in  the  environs  at  once  sent  the  rasped  nerves  of 
the  city  completely  a-j angle.  Crowds  gesticu- 
lated on  every  street  corner.  Speculation  was 
wild.  It  was  the  occupation  at  last,  atrocities, 
indemnity,  and  all.  There  was  above  all  fear, 
with  a  certain  relief  that  the  suspense  was  at  last 
ended,  and  a  deep  grief  that  the  city  should  be 
thus  sullied. 

But  the  Germans  did  not  come ;  they  had 
more  pressing  business  elsewhere.  Nevertheless 
fear  of  them  so  haunted  the  city  that  it  was 
finally  decreed  that  anyone  spreading  sensational 
news  would  be  arrested  and  forced  to  give  his 
authority.  How  this  could  be  done  with  all  the 
police  force  gone  I  do  not  know,  but  doubtless  it 
hushed  many  a  clattering  tongue  into  silence. 

The  government  of  the  Departement  du  Nord, 
of  which  Lille  is  the  capital,  had  fled  pell-mell  to 
Dunkerque  on  the  sea-coast.  One  day  during 
my  stay  they  returned,  and  post,  telegraph,  and 
train    service    were    resumed.     The    people    were 


From  the  French  Lines  to  the  German     37 

jubilant.  The  German  goblins  vanished  like  a 
hideous  nightmare.  Imagine  the  panic,  however, 
when  the  very  next  day  it  was  found  that  the 
government  had  fled  again  in  the  night. 

It  was  obvious  that  even  if  the  Germans 
entered  Lille  at  all,  it  would  be  only  with  a 
small  holding  force.  The  main  army  was  driving 
through  farther  east.  Douai,  they  told  me,  was 
the  centre  of  activities,  but  how  to  cover  the  forty 
kilometres  there  was  a  poser.  At  last  the  idea 
of  a  bicycle  struck  me.  It  would  be  quaint  in- 
deed thus  to  chase  the  battle-front  blindly  all 
over  France.  After  a  whole  day's  hunting  and 
tremendous  linguistic  effort,  I  secured  the  best 
the  city  could  offer,  the  best  bicycle,  I  soon 
believed,  in  all  France,  a  machine  which,  costing 
me  but  #23  secondhand,  was  destined  to  take  me 
half  across  the  country. 

Then  to  have  my  passport  vised.  The  few 
relics  left  over  from  the  fugitive  city  government 
shunted  me  on  from  one  to  the  other  as  if  com- 
pletely astounded  at  my  proposal.  At  last  I 
arrived  before  the  grand  factotum  himself.  He 
growled  menacingly  at  me,  and  more  menacingly 


,38     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

at  my  passport.  When  he  heard  I  wanted  to 
go  on  to  Cambrai,  he  snapped  out  that  I  was 
most  suspiciously  following  the  armies.  So  that 
was  where  they  were  then  ?  but  I  hastened  to 
tell  him  of  two  American  girls  I  was  trying  to 
locate.  It  didn't  go.  The  dates  on  my  pass- 
port were  all  against  me.  The  game  was  up,  I 
thought,  and  quickly  forgot  all  the  French  I 
ever  knew.  Here's  where  I  go  down  as  a  spy, 
I  was  just  thinking,  when  suddenly  down  came  his 
pen  on  the  passport,  and  I  found  myself  booked 
for  Arras.  Arras  ?  I  looked  it  up  on  the  map  as 
soon  as  I  could  and  found  that  there  were  more 
ways  than  one  of  getting  there. 

So  I  bicycled  out  of  Lille,  for  Arras,  via  Douai. 
What  in  the  world  would  I  blunder  into  in  those 
forty  kilometres  ?  French,  Germans,  battles ; 
danger  or  peacefulness  ?  Inn  after  inn  I  stopped 
at  —  for  it  was  hot  work  bicycling  —  and  always 
it  was  the  same  story,  husband,  son,  or  brother 
gone,  dead  for  all  that  was  known  these  past 
three  weeks,  nothing  left  but  misery,  suspense, 
abject  fear,  and  utter  defencelessness.  What 
nerves  the  dull-witted  peasant  women  of  Northern 


From  the  French  Lines  to  the  German     39 

France  have  were  worn  into  such  a  frazzle  that 
nothing  was  too  terrible  to  fear  of  "les  barbares." 

At  last,  with  considerable  trepidation  I  entered 
Douai.  To  my  amazement,  however,  the  Ger- 
mans had  not  yet  come  there.  The  atmosphere 
was  even  more  electric  than  at  Lille ;  the  slightest 
clatter  down  any  side  street  at  once  magnetized 
a  gaping  crowd  into  activity.  Trains,  post, 
telegraph,  and  newspapers  had  ceased  eight  days 
before.  Once  I  saw  a  small  crowd  apparently 
mobbing  a  single  man,  who  turned  out  to  be  only 
a  poor  newspaper  dealer  with  a  few  old  Lille 
papers.  Occasionally  a  Red  Cross  auto  tore  in 
from  that  mysterious  land  of  the  front,  dashing 
recklessly  through  the  streets  and  covered  thick 
with  dust.  Crowds  at  once  gathered  in  the  hope 
of  a  few  crumbs  of  news. 

Only  once  did  I  see  that  fear-ridden  crowd 
laugh.  That  was  when  a  heavy  wagon  clattered 
down  the  street  with  three  men  in  front  carrying 
giant  carrots  cut  out  to  represent  the  Kaiser. 
There  was  the  helmet,  the  upturned  moustache, 
the  jaunty  head,  and  all.  The  laugh,  however, 
was  nervous  and  half-hearted   and  soon  ceased. 


4-0     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

Still  I  don't  suppose  any  other  people  in  the 
world  but  the  French  would  have  thought  of 
such  a  thing  at  such  a  time. 

Again  it  was  obvious  that  I  was  on  the  wrong 
scent.  The  map  showed  Valenciennes  to  be  the 
next  big  city  eastward  and  I  set  out  without 
loss  of   time   to   get  my  passport  vised  onward. 

"But  the  Germans  are  at  Valenciennes!" 
exclaimed  a  pompous  chap,  and  he  went  off  at 
once  to  get  another  official.  Out  came  a  fat 
little  man  with  staring  eyes  who  seemed  to  be  the 
big  nabob. 

"But,  Monsieur,"  he  protested,  "there  are  Ger- 
mans there." 

"I  know,"  I  replied.     "They  won't  hurt  me." 

"But,"  he  stammered,  "the  Germans,  the  bar- 
barians —  " 

"Yes,  but  I'm  an  American." 

"And  you  want  to  go  to  Valenciennes,  where 
all  the  Germans  are?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied.  "I'm  crazy,  stark  crazy; 
nobody  will  harm  a  mad  man." 

He  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter  and  went  out 
to  call  the  few  other  officials  left  in  the  building. 


From  the  French  Lines  to  the  German     41 

To  them  we  gave  a  dress  performance  of  the 
whole,  at  the  end  of  which  the  little  nabob,  amid 
chuckles  and  "les  Allemands,"  affixed  his  portly 
seal  to  my  much-abused  passport.  That  after- 
noon he  met  me  in  the  square  and  a  second 
time  explained  about  the  Germans.  At  dinner 
at  the  hotel  I  saw  him  again,  still  chuckling  and 
talking  about  "les  barbares." 

Off  I  started  the  next  day  for  Valenciennes, 
sure  at  last  of  meeting  the  Germans,  uncertain 
of  everything  else.  I  confess,  too,  that  I  could 
not  but  absorb  some  of  the  terror  about  me ;  I 
could  not  but  wonder  what  they  would  do  to  a 
lone  civilian  bicycling  aimlessly  about.  With 
every  turn  of  the  wheel  the  tenseness  seemed 
greater.  Every  kilometer  of  the  thirty-five  to 
Valenciennes  the  German  phantom  became  more 
life-like.  All  the  way  the  stagnation  and  loneliness 
increased.  Harvests  were  rotting ;  few  people 
were  in  the  fields ;  more  were  at  the  crossroads, 
waiting,  waiting. 

At  last  I  came  to  Aniche,  a  dirty  little  town 
with  two  main  cross-streets,  roughly  cobbled  and 
wet    with    filth.     Every    doorstep    was    crowded 


42     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

with  women  and  children  and  a  few  old  men, 
all  ready  to  turn  and  run,  all  animated  by  terror, 
sustained  by  curiosity.  The  fear  was  so  choking 
that  I  stopped  to  inquire.  "Les  barbares"  were 
just  entering. 

Crash !  they  were  there  at  the  corner.  Up 
snapped  their  horses'  heads ;  to  either  side  the 
great  helmeted  men  peered  with  burning  inten- 
sity. Uhlans  !  The  whole  village  winced.  Chil- 
dren ran  behind  their  mothers ;  women  made 
ready  to  flee. — Mediaeval  indeed,  a  page  from  the 
Crusades  ;  it  could  not  be  the  twentieth  century. 

Suddenly  two  of  the  horses  started  towards 
where  I  was.  The  crowd  ran  helter-skelter  in 
absolute  terror.  For  a  second  I  stood  alone  in 
the  road-way  like  a  marked  man,  with  my  suit- 
case strapped  to  my  bicycle  and  a  straw  hat  on 
my  head.  Believe  me,  I  lost  no  time  in  getting 
to  a  doorway  with  my  precious  machine.  For- 
tunately, however,  it  had  been  no  more  than  a 
bolting  horse.  Shortly  the  people  returned,  quiv- 
ering but  still  curious.  Sadly,  bitterly,  they 
watched  the  division  ride  past,  impotent  to  do 
anything,  their  own  men  way  behind  them  to  the 


From  the  French  Lines  to  the  German     43 

South,  they  themselves  absolutely  at  the  mercy 
of  the  big,  stalwart,  fearsome-looking  warriors 
whose  march  was  thus  forever  engraven  on  their 
memory.  It  made  my  soul  sick  when  word  was 
whispered  back  that  "les  barbares"  had  taken 
possession  of  the  town  hall  and  requisitioned 
luncheon. 

Now  indeed  I  was  within  the  German  lines,  a 
pretty  pickle  indeed,  I  began  to  fear.  In  four 
days  I  had  swung  around  the  French  and  British 
flanks,  from  the  French  and  British  rear  to  the 
German  rear,  and  was  hearing  the  same  battle 
which  I  had  heard  only  a  few  days  before  from 
the  exactly  opposite  side.  What  would  they 
say  when  they  found  me  ?  The  die  was  cast ; 
I  might  as  well  go  forward  as  back.  Without 
warning  a  big  gray  automobile  burst  upon  me 
with  frightful  speed.  I  thought  my  bicycle  was 
gone ;  but  no,  the  machine  tore  on  into  the  dis- 
tance, unnoticing. 

Dimly,  faintly,  I  began  to  hear  a  dull  rumble 
to  the  south,  a  sound  like  far-away  thunder, 
grim  and  sullen.  As  I  advanced,  it  separated 
into  the  distinct  shocks  of  heavy  artillery.     By 


44     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

the  map  I  could  see  that  the  line  extended  from 
Cambrai  through  Le  Cateau  to  Maubeuge.  Here 
indeed  was  the  clash  of  the  nations,  cruel,  primi- 
tive, savage,  where  the  world's  most  momentous 
issues  were  being  adjudicated  by  mere  brute  force. 

Just  at  sunset  I  stood  on  a  little  hill  looking 
down  on  the  white  spires  of  Valenciennes.  It 
was  the  main  German  headquarters  of  Northern 
France.  Should  I  go  down  ?  Certainly  I  could 
not  put  my  head  more  completely  into  the 
noose.  I  had  no  German  papers  and  nothing 
but  an  American  passport  showing  how  in  five 
days  I  had  circled  up  from  Paris  around  the 
French  and  English  flanks  to  the  German 
rear.  What  would  "les  barbares"  make  of  it 
all  ?  And  what  good  reason  could  I  give  them 
for  being  there  anyway  ?  A  long,  long  time 
I  waited.  At  last  there  appeared  an  educated- 
looking  Frenchman. 

"Monsieur,"  I  said,  "I'm  an  American.  Is  it 
safe  to  go  down  ?" 

Perfectly,"  he  replied. 

But  can  one  enter  the  city  ?" 

"Certainly." 


a 


a 


From  the  French  Lines  to  the  German     45 

"No  guards?" 

"No,  Monsieur." 

"No  sentries?" 

"No,   Monsieur." 

"No  need  of  passport?" 

"No,   Monsieur." 

I  could  not  believe  it.  Surely  my  French 
must  be  wrong.  One  could  not  enter  the  main 
German  headquarters  unchallenged.  To  win  his 
confidence,  I  showed  him  Paris  papers  a  week 
later  than  any  he  had  seen  and  gave  him  news 
of  the  capital.  His  joy  knew  no  bounds ;  I  was 
sure  that  he  would  not  deceive  me.  I  descended 
the  hill ;  approached  the  city  gates  gingerly ; 
entered ;  passed  through ;  found  myself  un- 
challenged in  the  city  of  German  headquarters 
of  Northern  France. 

Ah,  Valenciennes,  you  were  indeed  a  stricken 
city.  Helpless  under  the  iron  heel  of  the  Ger- 
man military  system,  you  were  forced  to  house 
your  bitterest  enemies ;  to  give  them  of  your 
best ;  to  see  yourself  made  the  base  of  a  mighty 
blow  at  the  heart  of  your  country.  Heaven 
knows    how    many    thousands    of    hostile    troops 


46     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

sullied  your  soil ;  how  many  hundreds  of  busses, 
wagons,  automobiles,  thundered  out  of  your  gates 
towards  the  capital  of  France.  Alas  !  what  a 
tragedy  of  helplessness ;  the  spirit  willed  but 
strength  failed. 

You  were  like  a  great  stricken  animal,  com- 
prehending all,  suffering  all,  too  weak  to  struggle. 
Your  people  looked  on  with  piteous,  pleading  eye 
while  Germans  swarmed  on  you  and  over  you 
like  a  pest  of  locusts.  Sadness,  gloom,  despair, 
held  you  in  firm  grip,  with  never  a  smile  to 
brighten  the  tragedy.  For  six  days  it  had  been 
thus.  Before  that  the  English  had  been  here  for 
three  days,  having  come  25,000  strong  from 
Dunkerque  and  Boulogne  and  rushed  through  to 
disaster  at  Mons.  Shortly  the  Germans  burst 
through  Liege,  swarmed  on  in  immense  droves, 
and  flooded  into  Valenciennes  in  unestimated 
numbers.  Hardly  had  the  clatter  of  one  regiment 
ceased  than  that  of  another  began.  Irresistible, 
inexhaustible,  they  swarmed  on  while  Valenciennes 
choked  down  its  straining  heart. 

Never  will  I  forget  the  dull  agony  of  the  Place 
d'Armes.     On   one   side   rose   the   great   mass  of 


From  the  French  Lines  to  the  German     47 

the  crystal-towered  Hotel  de  Ville  in  all  its 
Gothic  beauty.  High  from  its  belfry  flaunted 
the  hated  German  colors.  In  its  court  and 
throughout  its  rooms  stalked  the  dull  gray  of 
hundreds  of  German  uniforms.  In  the  centre  of  the 
square  was  a  constantly  changing  stream  of  Ger- 
man soldiers,  artillery,  cavalry,  and  supply  wagons, 
ready  for  the  drive  south.  On  the  other  side,  a 
line  of  cafes  filled  with  Germans  and  French  alike. 
In  one  of  them,  the  Cafe  Francais,  I  sought  out 
the  Mayor.  He  and  his  government  had  been 
driven  from  the  picturesque  Hotel  de  Ville  and 
forced  to  take  up  their  headquarters  here  to  do 
what  they  could.  A  splendid  picture  of  manhood 
he  was  too,  flowing  white  hair,  erect  stature,  and 
sparkling  eyes. 

"Sir,"  I  said,  "I  am  an  American  journalist 
just  from  Paris.  I  have  newspapers  telling  of 
the  new  French  war  ministry.  Would  you  care 
to  see  them  ?" 

"Mon  Dieu,  yes,"  he  exclaimed. 

"But  not  here?"    I  questioned. 

"Heavens,  no,"  and  he  led  me  out  of  the 
crowded  cafe  into  a  small  alley-way,  up  a  rickety 


48     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

back  stairs  into  a  darkened  room,  where  a  group 
of  what  had  been  the  city  government  greeted 
the  news  with  boyish  excitement.  It  was  the 
first  they  had  had  for  eight  days,  and  it  showed 
that  France  still  lived. 

Now  for  the  German  commandant.  Obviously 
I  could  not  be  caught  without  some  sort  of 
papers.  It  was  better  to  face  it  out  voluntarily 
than  to  wait  for  the  inevitable  challenge.  I 
passed  through  the  German  sentries  patrolling 
the  sidewalk  and  stepped  gingerly  out  towards 
the  Hotel  de  Ville  over  what  seemed  to  be  a 
deadline  for  all  but  German  gray.  A  score  of 
soldiers  were  lolling  about  in  the  entry  way  of 
the  Hotel  de  Ville.  My  request  in  English  for  the 
commandant  turned  all  eyes  on  me  most  menac- 
ingly. It  was  the  time  when  hatred  for  England 
was  most  bitter.  Fortunately,  one  man  under- 
stood me  and  explained  that  I  should  go  to  the  rail- 
road station.     I  was  glad  indeed  to  go  anywhere. 

Men  half  naked,  men  bathing,  men  gorging 
food,  men  marching,  men  sleeping  on  straw,  Red 
Cross  women  flitting  about,  horses  being  led  out- 
side,    artillery    bumping     across     the     platform, 


From  the  French  Lines  to  the  German     49 

noise,  confusion,  a  babel  of  talking  and  com- 
mands —  such  was  the  main  station  of  Valen- 
ciennes on  this,  the  first  day  of  the  opening  of 
through  communication  with  Germany.  At  last 
I  located  the  commandant  and  hitched  myself  to 
him  like  a  wagon  to  a  star,  careering  after  him 
through  the  jumble. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  flared  between 
commands. 

"To  go  to  Cambrai,"  I  said. 

"What  if  you  do  ?"  he  snapped. 

"I  suppose  I  need  a  German  pass,"  I  said. 
"I  don't  want  to  get  shot." 

"You  can't  get  there,"  he  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have  a  bicycle." 

"My  God,  you  Americans,  you're  everywhere 
—  always  ready." 

He  was  off  like  a  shot  out  of  a  gun.  I  caught 
glimpses  of  his  fat  little  body  flitting  about  beside 
a  train  just  in.  Suddenly  he  dropped  out  of 
nowhere  before  me ;  ordered  me  to  come  with 
him,  and  tore  off  down  the  platform  to  his  office. 

"Where  do  you  come  from?"    he  asked. 

"Boston." 


50     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

"That's  a  poor  place." 

"It's  the  best  city  in  the  world,"  I  exclaimed. 

"Don't  talk  like  that  to  me  if  you  want  a  pass." 

"Well,  what  city  do  you  like  then?"    I  asked. 

"Philadelphia,"  he  replied,  and  I  burst  out 
laughing  so  hard  that  he  nearly  dropped  his  pen. 
Finally,  after  admitting  that  Philadelphia  was 
incomparable  in  the  United  States,  I  got  my 
German  pass. 

I  could  not  keep  away  from  the  Place  d'Armes, 
however ;  its  tragedy  fascinated  me.  At  regular 
intervals  the  sound  of  iron  heels  of  marching  men 
pounding  rhythmically  on  solid  cobbles  came  to 
us  from  along  the  road  from  Germany.  Another 
detachment  swung  out  of  the  narrow  streets 
into  the  square  and  goose-stepped  onwards  to  the 
Hotel  de  Ville.  A  snapping  command  cut  the 
air  like  a  razor;  the  detachment  halted  as  one 
man ;  another  snap,  and  crash,  the  guns  were 
grounded  on  the  cobbles.  Magnificent !  A  few 
minutes  rest  and  another  thousand  gray  uniforms 
were  off  to  the  heart  of  France. 

Then  a  sharp  siren  screech  as  a  single  gray 
automobile,   thick   with   dust   and   bristling   with 


I 


< 


- mmi 


"■■■/L  /^  *»#  /*//* .     ^  M 


"  Herr  Arthur  Sweetser  of  Boston  (Mass.)  "  is  allowed  to  go 
from  Valenciennes  to  Cambrai,  from  Solesmes  to  St.  Quentin. 


From  the  French  Lines  to  the  German     51 

the  barrels  of  sharp-shooters'  guns,  burst  into  the 
square.  A  hurried  inquiry  for  directions  while 
the  engine  still  pounded,  and  off  it  tore  to  do  its 
murderous  work.  Again  a  huge  bus  trundled 
around  the  corner,  and  another  and  another  until 
the  square  was  choked  with  great  machines  and 
'  the  air  rilled  with  noise  and  gasoline.  Amid  pound- 
ing engines  and  sharp  commands  a  brief  rest  was 
taken  before  the  whole  avalanche  in  single  file 
ground  its  way  fatalistically  southwards.  In  one 
division  alone  I  counted  seventy-eight  machines, 
some  standard  army  autos,  some  horse  vehicles, 
and  many  nondescript  conveyances. 

Occasionally  there  came  groups  of  tragic  French 
prisoners.  All  were  sad,  dejected ;  many  so 
downcast  as  to  turn  away  their  faces  in  shame. 
A  bitter  fate  indeed  to  be  prisoner  in  their  own 
country  and  led  by  the  enemy  through  their  own 
cities.  The  Germans  lolled  lazily  out  to  watch 
them  in  contented  fashion,  much  as  a  hunter 
contemplates  a  good  day's  game;  the  native 
French  stood  wet-eyed  and  silent,  their  whole 
beings  expressive  of  the  agony  that  was  in  them. 


Ill 

IN  THE   WAKE   OF   VON   KLUCK 

I  wonder  if  anything  is  more  lonesome,  more 
oppressive,  than  the  work  of  a  solitary  war- 
correspondent  seeking  the  battle-line  in  an  alien 
country  ?  Surely  it  seemed  not,  as  I  left  the 
comparative  safety  of  Valenciennes  to  plunge 
south  after  the  rapidly  advancing  Germans.  In 
fact  I  was  seized  with  a  sort  of  unreasoned  panic 
which  made  me  take  a  wide  detour  beyond  pos- 
sible sentries  across  stubbled  fields  and  far  out 
on  to  the  main  road.  There,  from  behind  a  small 
hut,  I  watched  for  two  solid  hours  the  slow,  meas- 
ured passing  of  a  huge  German  convoy  —  autos, 
busses,  vans,  wagons — plodding  steadily  on. 
Grim,  helmeted  horsemen,  looking  all  the  more 
terrible  from  the  heavy  spears  which  seemed  to 
itch  in  their  hands,  cast  glowering  looks  towards 
the  few  natives  who  watched  their  passing. 

At  last  the  road  was  clear  and  I  bicycled  off 
through  a  group  of  villagers,  who  looked  at  me 

52 


In  the  Wake  of  Von  Kluck  53 

dully,  dazedly,  fearfully,  as  if  I  too  had  taken  on 
the  atmosphere  of  war.  Now,  however,  all  was 
quiet.  The  roar  of  artillery  which  had  rumbled 
through  this  section  just  two  days  before  had 
ceased.  Absolute  peace  prevailed.  I  shuddered 
to  think  what  that  peace  meant  and  what  it  had 
cost.  One  thing,  however,  it  made  crystal-clear, 
and  that  was  that  the  long-boasted  German  dash 
to  Paris  was  well  on  its  way  to  success.  The 
English  and  French  whom  I  had  seen  rushing  up 
this  way  two  days  before  were  evidently  in  rout. 
Therefore,  I  left  the  highroad  and  struck  off  pell- 
mell  across  country  towards  France's  capital. 

Inn  after  inn  I  stopped  at,  for  it  was  hot  work 
bicycling,  and  there  was  always  chance  of  picking 
up  news.  Scores  I  met  of  the  peasant  women 
who  have  made  Northern  France  the  granary 
that  it  is,  women  illiterate,  bovine,  stolid  in 
feature  and  character,  dirty  in  person  and  in 
home,  sepulchral-looking  in  their  black  clothing. 
Not  one  of  them  realized  the  significance  of  the 
forces  surging  about  them.  Revanche,  Alsace- 
Lorraine,  1870,  may  have  been  shibboleths  in  the 
cities,   but   amongst  these   poor   peasant  women 


54      Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

they  were  absolutely  unknown.  Perhaps  their 
attitude  was  best  expressed  by  an  old  woman 
with  dirt-incrusted  hands,  and,  I  was  going  to 
say,  face,  who  kept  a  squalid  little  inn  at  an  open 
country  cross-roads. 

"Ah,  Monsieur,"  —  she  was  almost  weeping,  — 
"they're  beasts,  les  Allemands,  beasts.  Why 
do  they  come  down  here  ?  What  do  they  want  ? 
Everything  was  so  happy  a  few  weeks  ago ;  we 
had  a  good  crop  ;  Jacques  was  just  getting  well 
again ;  it  was  going  along  to  fall  —  and  now  look 
at  things." 

"See,"  she  continued  in  anger,  "they  don't 
even  pay  for  what  they  take.  Look  at  what  they 
gave  me.  They  came  in  and  took  my  best  beer, 
and  drank,  drank,  drank.  When  it  was  all  gone, 
they  cursed  me.  For  two  days  they  marched 
past  — ■  two  whole  days,  Monsieur,  pound,  pound, 
pound  past  this  door.  Sometimes  they  stopped 
and  swarmed  in  here  and  spread  all  over  the  room 
and  talked  their  horrible  talk  and  then  gave  me 
this  and  laughed." 

She  held  out  a  collection  of  marks  and  pfen- 
nigs.    I  used  all  the  eloquence  I  had  to  tell  her 


In  the  Wake  of  Von  Kluck  55 

it  was  money  and  represented  payment,  but  I 
might  as  well  have  argued  with  a  mountain. 

"I  don't  want  their  German  truck,"  she  burst 
out.  "  Why  didn't  they  stay  where  they  belonged  ? 
What  are  they  doing  here  ?  For  two  days  they 
marched  past,  two  days,  and  then  we  heard  guns 
down  that  way.  For  three  days  it  lasted  and  then 
all  was  quiet.  Where  have  they  gone  now,  and 
what  am  I  going  to  do  with  all  this  stuff?' 

That  to  her  was  the  war.  Two  days  of  march- 
ing Germans,  three  days  of  the  noise  of  guns, 
quiet  —  a  husband  gone,  crops  running  to  seed, 
a  store  ruined,  and  a  drawerful  of  worthless  coins 
—  what  indeed  did  she  care  about  Revanche, 
Alsace-Lorraine,  Belgium  ?  She,  like  so  many 
others,  may  not  have  known  how  to  live  according 
to  our  standards,  but  God  knows  she  knew  how 
to  suffer.  Why  indeed  had  a  handful  of  rulers, 
diplomats,  and  statesmen  belied  their  purpose  in 
bringing  misery  to  millions  of  sad-faced,  suffer- 
ing women  just   like   her  ? 

At  noon,  with  a  blazing  sun  overhead  and  forty 
kilometres  bicycling  behind  me,  I  arrived  at 
Solesmes,  hot,  exhausted,  famished.     Streets  were 


$6     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

deserted ;  houses  shut.  At  two  doors  I  rang ; 
there  was  an  interminable  wait  as  though  the 
occupants  were  coming  up  from  an  abyss. 

"Mais  non,  Monsieur,  the  Germans  have  taken 
everything.     There  is  nothing  to  eat  in  the  city." 

And  a  pair  of  nervous  eyes  glancing  up  and 
down  the  street  left  no  doubt  that  I  was  an  un- 
welcome intruder. 

At  last  before  the  Hotel  de  Ville  I  saw  life  — 
a  group  of  German  soldiers  in  their  dull  gray, 
cheerless  uniforms,  lolling  comfortably  about. 
I  rode  boldly  up,  despite  the  fear  that  they  might 
commandeer  my  bicycle,  and  lost  no  time  in 
disappearing  into  a  little  inn.  There  for  the 
first  time  I  learned  the  war  value  of  a  cigarette. 
The  look  of  suspicion  shot  out  at  me  by  a  lone 
officer  near  by  changed  at  once  into  longing  when, 
for  want  of  anything  better  to  do,  I  took  out  a 
package.  Carelessly  I  handed  him  one  which  he 
seized  almost  ravenously.  From  that  it  was  but 
a  short  step  to  German  headquarters  and  a  rich 
meal  in  an  abandoned  French  mansion  where 
empty  glasses,  half-eaten  food,  boots  and  uni- 
forms already  created  a  condition  of  filth. 


In  the  Wake  of  Von  Kluck  57 

My  friend  proved  most  voluble  and  once  more 
useful.  After  toasting  the  Kaiser  and  pretty 
near  all  Germany,  he  took  me  to  a  large  house  on 
the  square  from  the  lower  windows  of  which  the 
German  commandant  was  holding  court  for  the 
villagers.  There,  in  a  group  of  fearing,  cringing 
peasants  between  one  who  volunteered  to  do  Red 
Cross  work  and  another  who  asked  permission  to  go 
to  the  next  town,  I  had  my  pass  continued  on  to 
St.  Quentin.  With  a  cheerful  smile  the  comman- 
dant said  he  would  meet  me  in  Paris  September  4. 

So  I  pedalled  rapidly  on  through  the  hot  sun 
after  the  German  avalanche.  Hardly  a  sign  of 
life  could  be  seen.  Beautiful  fields  rich  with  a 
bounteous  harvest  stretched  forth  in  picturesque 
undulations  with  no  human  being  about.  Little 
farmhouses  cluttered  with  filth  lay  open  to  the 
world  in  hollow  mockery.  Even  the  quaint  little 
village  of  Le  Cateau,  lying  in  a  valley  between 
two  steep  hills,  could  show  only  the  dull  gray  of  a 
few  German  soldiers.  Whither,  I  wondered,  had 
the  country  fled  ? 

Leaving  the  town,  I  soon  topped  the  crest  of  a 
particularly   steep    hill.     Smash !   outlined    sharp 


58     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

against  the  sky  were  two  angry  field-pieces,  sul- 
lenly, defiantly  facing  out  across  the  valley  towards 
Germany.  Ugly  scars  —  was  it  possible  they 
were  trenches  —  zigzagged  here  and  there  through 
the  rich  harvests.  Empty  cartridge  shells  in 
little  piles,  half-eaten  meat  and  hard-tack,  now  and 
then  a  letter,  cards,  or  a  book,  occasionally  a 
khaki  hat  or  coat,  told  their  simple  tale  of  the 
little  human  units  caught  in  the  vortex  of  war. 

Strangely,  it  was  English,  all  English.  It  was 
the  battlefield  of  the  Cateau-Cambrai  line,  the 
strategic  point  where  General  French  rallied 
his  remnants  for  one  last  staying  effort  while 
the  French  concentrated  about  Paris ;  the  grave- 
yard whither  the  Tommies  I  had  seen  a  few  nights 
before  from  the  other  side  had  been  rushing  to 
bolster  up  their  nearly  annihilated  comrades 
fleeing  precipitately  but  valiantly  from  Belgium. 
I  learned  the  story  later  from  a  curly-headed 
youngster  of  twenty  who  had  been  one  of  the  few 
to  escape.  Twelve  hundred  strong  the  regiment 
had  left  England.  For  thirty-six  hours  without 
cessation  it  had  fought  at  Mons.  For  six  days 
and  six  nights  it  had  alternately  retreated  and  held 


In  the  Wake  of  Von  Kluck  59 

till  the  final  graveyard  was  reached  at  the  peace- 
ful spot  where  I  now  stood.  For  only  eight  hours 
the  carnage  had  lasted,  but  at  the  retreat  only 
300  men  were  able  to  leave. 

Sick  at  heart  I  ascended  the  hill  further,  to 
find  a  terrified  French  peasant  hastily  emptying 
his  pockets  of  fragments  of  shells.  He  seemed 
in  perfect  terror  lest  he  be  shot  for  taking  away 
a  souvenir. 

"Ah,  Monsieur,  it  is  terrible,  this  war.  For 
two  days  I  have  buried  dead  men,  two  whole 
days,  and  then  I  thought  they  would  let  me  go. 
But  no ;  I  must  now  bury  dead  horses.  It  is 
terrible,   this  war,  terrible." 

Apparently  he  felt  no  further  emotion,  and  I 
shook  him  off  with  a  certain  feeling  of  horror. 
No  man  could  pass  those  new-made  graves  un- 
moved. The  rough  piles  of  earth  scattered 
throughout  the  harvest  and  surmounted  now 
and  then  by  a  cap  or  a  rough  wooden  cross  told 
a  tale  of  heroism,  of  pathos,  of  homes  desolate, 
which  roused  one's  whole  being  into  anger  at 
human  folly.  The  bounteous  harvests  which 
Nature    had    offered    for    man's    happiness    lay 


60     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

crushed  and  mangled  under  the  pounding  of 
hundreds  of  angry  feet.  The  streaming  sun- 
shine and  peace  seemed  a  mockery,  not  to  the 
brave  men  who  lay  near  by  but  to  that  system 
which  had  made  such  slaughter  possible. 

Reverently  from  the  brow  of  the  hill  I  stood 
for  a  long  time  surveying  this  last  resting  place  of 
so  many  valiant  men.  The  stillness  of  a  profound 
peace  rested  over  these  once  beautiful  fields  as 
though  the  last  great  struggle  was  over.  The  roar 
that  I  had  heard  coming  from  this  spot  for  two 
days  just  before  seemed  only  a  hallucination.  The 
terrible  engine  of  destruction  had  passed  onwards, 
leaving  the  field  to  the  dead  and  the  Creator. 

Sadly  I,  too,  followed  into  the  twilight  as  a 
beautiful  new  moon  chiselled  its  way  into  the 
deepening  skies.  It  seemed  impossible  that  men 
were  even  then  in  the  distance  hunting  each  other 
like  wild  beasts.  Yet  on  all  sides  lay  mute  wit- 
nesses to  what  had  here  been  and  was  there  going 
on.  Big  autobusses  bearing  the  familiar  names 
of  large  English  commercial  houses  lay  tossed 
on  their  sides  after  brief  services  as  barricades. 
Every  half  mile  came  the  stench  of  a  dead  horse 


In  the  Wake  of  Von  Kluck  61 

and    sight   of   a    horrible   swollen   body,    already 
rotting  beside  the  road. 

As  darkness  fell  and  the  night  chill  set  in,  the 
uncanniness  of  it  all  became  accentuated  to  the 
lone  bicyclist  pedalling  his  way  through  this  land 
of  carnage.  At  such  times  everything  in  one 
seems  to  cry  out  for  the  life  and  warmth  of  a 
human  habitation,  and  when  at  last  I  came  upon 
a  desolate-looking  little  inn,  I  waited  long  to 
rouse  someone  to  let  me  in.  At  last,  an  old  man, 
terrified  lest  I  be  the  German  army  come  back, 
told  me  with  the  utmost  sadness  that  they  could 
give  me  neither  bed  nor  food.  I  could  not 
believe  it  till  he  lighted  me  about  the  house, 
when  the  shame  of  it  all  stood  out  in  full  horror. 
Every  room  was  strewn  with  straw,  bottles, 
food,  and  filth.  What  had  once  been  a  home  had 
in  a  twinkling  been  turned  into  a  sty.  My  good 
friend,  however,  told  me  of  a  place  two  kilometres 
off  the  highroad  where  after  much  difficulty  I 
found  a  house  which  still  boasted  a  few  eggs  and 
some  bread.  There,  though  the  battle-line  was 
rushing  on  towards  Paris  and  still  out  of  hearing, 
I  stopped  for  the  night. 


62     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

Early  the  next  morning,  leaving  my  kind  host 
silhouetted  against  the  doorway,  his  wooden  arm 
raised  on  high,  calling  down  all  sorts  of  impreca- 
tions on  the  Germans,  I  set  out  once  more  to  catch 
up  with  the  invaders.  Again  it  was  one  long 
succession  of  rotting  harvests,  decomposed  horses, 
abandoned  motor-trucks,  and  deserted  houses. 
Roadway  inns  yawned  even  wider  to  the  outside 
world,  with  broken  bottles,  fly-covered  food,  and 
sickening  refuse  scattered  about  in  disorder.  Three 
armies,  English,  French,  and  German,  had  left  the 
country  as  a  flock  of  carrions  leave  a  carcass. 

Suddenly  a  field  of  blue  —  a  field  where  blue 
coats  and  caps  lent  the  coloring  of  the  French 
soldier  who  had  once  been  there.  A  few  rudi- 
mentary trenches,  piles  of  broken  guns  where 
surrender  had  been  en  masse  —  witnesses  indeed 
to  the  half-hearted  struggle  of  the  half-prepared 
French  force  which  had  simply  melted  before  the 
Prussian  machine.  Halfway  into  France  though 
I  was,  it  was  the  first  sign  of  French  resistance 
I  had  seen,  and  the  pitifulness  of  it  made  me  sick 
at  heart.  Later  I  learned  it  was  the  scene  of 
what  has  been  called  the  battle  of  St.  Quentin. 


In  the  Wake  of  Von  Kluck  63 

At  last,  towards  noon,  I  made  my  way  into  the 
quaint  old  city  of  St.  Quentin.  The  sombre 
gray  of  the  German  uniform  had  settled  down  like 
a  pall.  Crowds  of  foot-sore  soldiers,  all  too  en- 
vious of  my  bicycle,  crowded  the  rough  cobbled 
streets,  while  every  now  and  then  ponderous  auto 
trains  and  field  artillery  pounded  through. 
French  in  nervous  groups  gaped  at  blood-and- 
thunder  manifestoes  or  hastily  scurried  from  one 
place  of  safety  to  another.  All  human  effort 
except  war  had  ceased  in  this  old  city. 

Terrible  news  had  been  posted  in  the  city  that 
day.  The  French  civilians,  who  all  along  had 
clung  to  the  forlorn  hope  that  Russia  might  even 
yet  save  France,  were  informed  in  blazing  proc- 
lamations by  the  German  Headquarters  that  the 
Russians  had  suffered  a  crushing  disaster  at  Tan- 
nenberg.  As  I  saw  the  heart-sick  French  gazing  at 
these  posters,  one  of  which  is  reproduced  herewith, 
I  could  not  but  marvel  at  that  wonderful  military 
organization  which  overlooks  no  detail,  not  even  to 
taking  all  hope  from  the  civilians  of  invaded  terri- 
tory. The  communique  is  so  exact,  so  pithy,  so 
absolutely  final,  that  I  give  a  translation  herewith  : 


64     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 


11 

du  Grand  Ouarlier  General 
des  Armees  Allemandes 


Le  31  Aoitt  1914. 

Par  T.  S.  F. 

Les  succes  de  la  bataille  de  Tannenberg 
contre  la  deuxieme  armee  russe  sont  encore  de 
beaucoup  plus  iznportants  que  nous  l'avions 
suppose  au  premier  moment.  Trois  corps  d'ar- 
mee  russes  ont  ete  completement  aneantis.  Deux 
aeneraux  commandant  les  13*™  et  15'*me  corps 
d'armee  russes  ont  ete  faits  prisonniers.  Avec 
eux  60  a  70,000  Russes  sont  tombes  entre  les 
mains  des  Allemands.  Des  parties  du  1"  et  6ms 
corps  russes  battent  en  retraite  dans  la  direction 
d'Ostrolenka. 

La  deuxieme  armee  russe,  sous  le  comman- 
dement  du  general  de  cavalerie  Rausch  de  Fran- 
kenberg,  a  cesse  d'exister. 

Les  premiere  et  quatrieme  armees  autri- 
chiennes  avancent  victorieusement. 

Le  ministre  anglais  avoue  que  de  fortes  pertes 
ont  ete  eprouvees. 

Le  Gouverneur  allemand  de  Namur  mande 
que  le  butin  de  guerre  comporte  non  pas  90  mais 
169  pieces  de  forteresse. 

German  communique  to  the  French.     See  opposite  page. 


In  the  Wake  of  Von  Kluck  65 

"Communique  from  the  Great  Headquarters 

of  the  German  Armies 

"August  31,  1914.     By  wireless. 

"The  results  of  the  Battle  of  Tannenberg 
against  the  Second  Russian  Army  are  very  much 
more  important  than  we  had  at  first  thought. 
Three  Russian  army  corps  have  been  completely 
annihilated.  Two  generals  commanding  the  13th 
and  15th  Russian  army  corps  have  been  made 
prisoner.  With  them  60,000  to  70,000  Russians 
have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  Germans.  Parts 
of  the  First  and  Sixth  Russian  corps  are  retreating 
towards  Ostrolenka. 

"The  Second  Russian  Army,  under  command  of 
General  of  Cavalry  Rausch  de  Frankenberg,  has 
ceased  to  exist. 

"The  First  and  Fourth  Austrian  Armies  are 
advancing  victoriously. 

"The  English  minister  admits  that  heavy  losses 
have  been  suffered. 

"The  German  governor  of  Namur  sends  word 
that  the  war-booty  consists,  not  of  90,  but  of  169 
fortress  guns." 


66     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

The  beautiful  main  square  was  one  great  Ger- 
man army  camp  liquid  with  the  continuous  flow 
of  engines  of  destruction.  The  picturesque, 
many-spired  seventeenth-century  Hotel  de  Ville 
had  been  converted  into  army  headquarters  care- 
fully guarded  by  a  cordon  of  sentries.  By 
much  effort  I  made  my  way  through  to  a 
young  orderly  who  spoke  both  English  and 
French  perfectly,  and  who  at  the  same  time 
vised  passports  for  French  peasants,  allayed  their 
fears,  said  they  could  go  and  come  as  freely  as  when 
the  French  flag  flew  over  the  city,  and  incidentally 
told  me  of  the  Kaiser's  justification  in  going  to 
war  and  the  Allies'  criminal  aggression. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  some  English  prisoners 
and  an  English  colonel  ?  We've  got  a  lot  out  in 
the  rear,"  as  though  they  were  a  bag  of  prize 
game.  To  my  amazement  he  led  me  among  them 
—  a  motley  crowd  of  250  Tommies  and  200 
French.  The  Tommies,  dirty,  ill-kempt,  and 
rather  dangerous-looking,  pressed  forward  toward 
me  till  it  was  with  difficulty  that  I  could  get 
away  to  see  their  officer.  Somehow,  it's  a  most 
uncomfortable   thing   to   be    a    free    man    among 


In  the  Wake  of  Von  Kluck  67 

prisoners,  to  know  that  at  any  minute  the  doors 
will  open  for  you  but  not  for  them. 

"Yes,  by  God,  I  swear  it,  sir,"  he  was  saying. 
"Those  dirty  beasts  caught  us  two  days  back, 
me  and  six  others,  and  marched  us  at  the  head  of 
the  column  right  into  the  face  of  our  own  guns. 
You  can't  believe  me  —  but  by  God,  if  you  had  a 
Bible,  —  and  now  for  three  days  since  we've 
rotted  here,  stones  to  sleep  on,  no  blankets,  no 
food,  no — " 

An  angry,  growling  furore  rose  behind  me.  I 
turned  to  see  a  group  of  Englishmen  fighting 
almost  like  wolves  for  a  piece  of  bread  held  out 
from  a  window  above. 

"Ah,  Monsieur"  —  it  was  a  French  prisoner, 
tears  running  down  his  cheeks,  pleading  —  "it 
is  ghastly.  For  three  days  now  our  English 
friends  have  not  eaten.  For  three  days  the  Ger- 
mans have  given  us  nothing.  We  French  get  a 
little  from  our  women  who  are  allowed  in,  but 
the  English  —  you  see,  they  starve.  Mon  Dieu, 
I  cannot  stand  it."  And  almost  in  a  complete 
breakdown  he  gave  me  the  name  of  a  well-known 
Protestant  minister  in  the  city. 


68     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

I  set  out  to  see  him  at  once. 

"Would  you  mind  speaking  English?"  he  said. 
"Perhaps  it  would  be  easier  as  I  spent  four  years 
at  Harvard." 

He  listened  to  my  story  —  listened  with  anguish 
lined  deep  in  his  finely  chiselled  features.  It  was  no 
use,  he  said  ;  even  the  citizens  themselves  were 
starving.  No  trains  for  six  days,  every  store  com- 
mandeered, all  breadmakers  working  twenty-four 
hours  for  the  Germans,  suffering,  misery,  lawless- 
ness on  all  sides  —  and,  his  gentle  face  hardening  : 

"  Sir,  I  am  a  minister  of  God,  a  disciple  of  Christ, 
but  it  takes  every  ounce  of  moral  courage,  every 
bit  of  faith  I  own,  even  to  administer  the  last  rites 
to  those  who  have  brought  us  this  woe.  I  try, 
God  knows,  I  try  with  all  my  power  to  fulfil  my 
mission,  but  I  am  not  strong  enough.  My  faith 
says  'God  save  them';  my  heart,  'God  curse 
them.'  " 

Sadly  indeed  I  left  him,  not,  however,  wholly 
convinced  that  a  little  American  enthusiasm  could 
not  even  yet  find  food  for  the  starving  Englishmen. 
But  as  it  was  now  four  o'clock,  I  decided  to  get 
lunch  for  myself  first.     From  cafe  to  cafe,  store  to 


In  the  Wake  of  Von  Kluck  69 

store,  shop  to  shop,  I  went  —  in  vain.  After  an 
hour's  hunt,  the  best  I  could  do  was  a  cake  of 
chocolate  and  two  beers ;  for  supper  chocolate, 
three  beers,  and  the  last  fatty  slice  of  the  last 
round  of  ham  secured  after  mixing  in  a  free-for-all 
fight  with  some  German  soldiers.  After  that  I 
gave  up  thought  of  feeding  250  Tommies. 

I  knew  that  nearly  every  hotel  had  been  com- 
mandeered, so  I  started  early  for  a  place  to  sleep. 
I  began  at  the  better  hotels,  worked  down  through 
the  smaller  ones,  till  finally  late  at  night  I  found 
an  extra  bed  in  a  dirty  little  house  way  off  in 
the  slums,  cost,  one  franc.  Never  did  man  pass 
such  a  lively  night;  everything  seemed  living 
and  hungry.  The  next  morning  I  was  about 
to  leave  the  house  and  all  its  memories  behind  me 
as  fast  as  I  could  when  the  woman  of  the  house 
offered  me  breakfast.  I  knew  I  could  not  expect 
food  elsewhere  in  the  city  and  I  thought  that 
eggs  at  least  would  be  safe,  so  I  returned  to  a  dirty 
kitchen,  where  an  ignorant,  squalid  husband  was 
rocking  in  what  was  once  a  chair. 

The  woman,  a  homely,  chicken-chested  creature 
of  forty  with  high  cheeks  and  prominent  teeth, 


yo     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

was  busy  getting  breakfast  and  railing  at  the  Ger- 
mans. She  had  gone  on  for  some  time  when  the 
man  said  unemotionally  : 

"Tell  him  about  it." 

She  stopped  short  as  she  was  putting  the  few 
rough  fittings  on  the  table  and  looked  anxiously 
at  her  husband. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "not  that." 

"Yes,"  he  insisted.     "He'd  be  interested." 

For  some  moments  there  was  silence  while  the 
woman  thought.  The  husband  continued  rocking 
slowly  in  his  rickety  chair  and  the  woman  went 
over  to  see  how  the  eggs  were  coming  on.  Then, 
all  the  time  moving  busily  about  getting  the  table 
ready,  she  began  slowly  : 

"Two  nights  ago  there  was  a  pounding  at  the 
door.  It  sounded  bad,  but  we  opened.  Two 
German  soldiers  came  in,  drunk.  They  put 
their  pistols   against  my  husband's  face." 

She  was  working  more  rapidly  now  and  her 
husband    had    ceased    rocking. 

"They  demanded  food.  We  gave  it  to  them. 
They  demanded  wine.  We  gave  them  that  too. 
And  then  — " 


In  the  Wake  of  Von  Kluck  71 

The  husband  rose  to  his  feet  and  glared  towards 


me. 


And  then,"  he  said,  "they  demanded  my 
wife." 

The  woman  turned  from  the  stove  and  faced 
me  squarely.  A  slight  flush  suffused  her  thin 
cheeks  and  a  challenge  was  in  her  eye. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "they  demanded  me,  too." 

For  a  moment  her  glance  held  firm.  But 
suddenly  a  quiver  went  through  her  being  and 
her  face  fell.  She  turned  hastily  back  to  the 
stove  and  began  stirring  the  eggs  more  rapidly, 
while  the  husband  resumed  his  rocking.  There 
was  only  the  creaking  of  the  chair  and  the  sizzling 
of  the  cooking.     Then  the  husband  said  : 

"Haven't  you  got  a  little  jam  for  his  break- 
fast?" 

Truly  women  have  suffered  in  this  war,  suf- 
fered as  only  women  can.  For  them  there  has 
been  no  escape;  while  their  sons,  husbands, 
brothers,  have  been  torn  from  them,  they  have 
been  left  behind,  unknowing,  undefended,  a 
prey  to  the  worst  dangers.  There  is  a  bigger, 
deeper  heroism  behind  the  lines  than  on  them. 


72      Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

It  is  odd,  when  the  whole  world  is  running 
blood,  how  glaringly  the  sufferings  of  a  single  in- 
dividual stand  out  in  one's  mind.  Midst  all  the 
horror  and  anguish  about  me  the  fate  of  this 
one  woman  burned  its  way  into  my  feelings  with 
an  intensity  that  was  uncanny.  For  days  it 
seemed  to  be  with  me,  sometimes  buried,  some- 
times cropping  to  the  surface,  but  always  the 
example  of  helpless,  innocent  suffering  which  to 
me  synchronized  with  war.  Somehow  man's 
mind  stands  aghast  and  appalled  before  war's 
riot  and  anguish,  and  can  get  an  inkling  of  the 
whole  only  by  possessing  the  particular. 

So  it  was  when  I  went  to  the  Palais  de  Justice, 
a  magnificent  three-story  building  fairly  writhing 
with  human  agony.  A  dank,  ominous  odor  of 
disinfectants  —  I  could  easily  imagine  it  was 
the  stale  smell  of  clotted  blood  —  greeted  me  at 
the  doorway.  A  glance  inside  showed  a  huge 
floor  space  covered  a  foot  thick  with  straw  and 
bodies  lying  helter-skelter  all  about,  just  as  they 
had  been  dumped  from  the  battle-line.  Some 
were  half  naked,  a  crushed  leg  resting  painfully 
on  the  straw.     Others  bulged  with  dark-stained 


In  the  Wake  of  Von  Kluck  73 

handkerchiefs  or  had  their  heads  so  swathed  in 
bandages  that  they  could  hardly  breathe.  Some 
were  in  a  death  sleep ;  some  moaned  piteously 
with  pain ;  others  existed  on,  their  dull  eyes 
gazing  blankly  into  space. 

Nuns  and  Red  Cross  nurses  wove  their  way 
gently  in  and  about,  bringing  water  for  parched 
throats,  placing  limbs  more  comfortably  on  the 
rough  straw,  and  doing  the  other  trifles  which 
it  was  left  in  human  power  to  do.  Above,  be- 
yond it  all,  like  an  evil-omened  spectre,  was  a 
black-robed  priest,  Bible  in  hand,  ready  like  death 
itself  to  enshroud  the  next  victim.  And  always 
that  smell  of  disinfectant,  unwashed  bodies, 
clotted  blood,  and  death.  My  God,  was  it  the 
Palais  de  Justice  I  was  in  ? 

At  that  moment,  a  little  French  girl  —  she 
could  not  have  been  over  fifteen — who  in  her  sur- 
roundings and  through  her  sufferings  appeared 
more  of  the  spirit  than  of  the  flesh,  asked  me  in 
a  gentle  whisper  if  she  could  aid  me.  Learning 
my  mission,  she  took  my  hand  and  led  me,  as 
though  I  too  were  a  child,  through  those  pros- 
trate forms  to  the  rear.     Her  whole  being  was 


74     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

rasped  and  torn.  She  tiptoed  wherever  she  went 
and  spoke  only  in  whispers.  Watching  the 
exquisite  spirituality  in  her  face,  I  almost  bumped 
into  a  nun  carrying  the  results  of  Nature's  needs 
from  among  the  helpless  patients.  Alas,  what  in 
thousands  of  cases  would  be  the  reaction  on  chil- 
dren such  as  this  one  brought  in  touch  with  such 
gruesome  suffering  ?  How  dearly  will  the  next 
generation  pay  for  the  excesses  of  the  present  one  ? 

At  last  we  found  the  surgeon  general,  heavily 
uniformed  and  armed. 

"Ach,  do  I  need  help  ?"  he  burst  out.  "Mein 
Gott,  I  am  the  only  doctor  to  this  whole  place 
with  nearly  iooo  wounded.     Kommen  sie  quick." 

I  had  told  him  there  were  two  English  doctors 
held  prisoner  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  His  eyes  lit 
up  with  joy,  and  dropping  everything  he  tore 
up  the  street.  On  the  way,  in  mixed  English, 
French,  and  German,  this  big-hearted  man  fal- 
tered out  to  me  the  horrors  of  this  war.  It  was 
as  though  his  very  soul  were  going  to  break. 

"It  is  war  here  in  France,  real  civilized  war 
—  gruesome  but  still  civilized,  but  in  Belgium] — 
I  was  there  two  weeks  —  there  is  no  name  for  it. 


In  the  Wake  of  Von  Kluck  75 

I  have  had  German  soldiers  brought  to  me  with 
eyes  gouged  out  and  bodies  fearfully  mangled. 
Why,  even  sixteen-year-old  girls  had  committed 
the  most  unbelievable  atrocities." 

It  was  another  side  of  the  shield  —  and  one 
could  hardly  disbelieve  the  sincerity  of  the  strong 
man  who  told  it.  Truly  everything  in  me  went 
out  in  sympathy  to  him.  How  long,  I  wondered, 
could  he  stand  the  strain  ?  And  somehow  when 
I  learned  from  my  friend  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville 
that  the  two  English  doctors  had  just  been  taken 
to  another  hospital,  it  was  painful  indeed  to 
think  of  this  big  German  left  entirely  alone  with 
such  an  agony  of  human  misery  and  suffering. 
As  I  sadly  watched  him  hurry  off  down  the  street 
to  his  maimed,  wounded,  and  dying,  the  puniness 
of  man's  attempts  to  alleviate  the  suffering  he 
has  deliberately  caused  flooded  in  on  me  in  sick- 
ening vividness. 

But  meantime  the  German  armies  were  rush- 
ing on  towards  Paris.  What,  I  wondered,  was 
happening  down  south  ?  Why  all  this  torrent 
of  infantry,  cavalry,  artillery  pouring  out  through 
the  further  end  of  the  square  and  none  coming 


76     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

back  ?  Was  there  no  resistance  at  all  ?  And 
would  I  never  catch  up  with  the  battle-line  ? 
From  pillar  to  post  I  chased  to  find  the  comman- 
dant and  finally  ran  him  down  in  a  barber-shop. 

"An  American?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  want  a  pass  ?  How  far?"  he  asked 
through  a  sea  of  lather. 

"To  Paris"  —  it  was  a  bold  thought.  The 
commandant  nearly  jumped  out  of  his  chair. 

"Paris,  ach  — "  and  then  he  roared.  Certainly 
it  would  be  drole,  wouldn't  it  —  a  German  officer 
giving  out  a  pass  to  Paris  ?  Yes,  indeed,  and  such 
a  good  joke  afterwards.  We  could  hardly  get 
back  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville  quickly  enough,  and, 
while  the  staff  was  still  in  gales  of  laughter,  he  said  : 

"I  will  meet  you  on  the  Champs  d'Elysees  in 
five  days." 

Five  days  !  September  7  !  What  in  the  world 
had  happened  to  the  south  ?  Where  were  the 
English  and  French  ? 

A  few  hours  later  —  it  was  record  time  —  I 
bicycled  into  Compiegne,  seventy-five  kilometres 
nearer  Paris.     The  bridge  over  the  Oise  had  been 


In  the  Wake  of  Von  Kluck  yy 

blown  up  by  the  French,  and  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  sensing  German  preparedness  in  crossing  the 
river  on  a  bridge  made  of  the  strange  boat-like 
things  I  had  wondered  about  so  much  four  days 
before  in  Valenciennes. 

Again  the  same  busy,  bustling  headquarters ; 
again  the  beautiful  old  Gothic  Hotel  de  Ville 
chiselled  against  a  glorious  sunset  and  floating 
the  German  flag;  again  the  sense  that  the 
battle-line  was  miles  and  miles  away.  And  also 
no  food. 

It  was  after  seven,  and  every  one  was  off  the 
streets.  Even  the  main  square  was  slumbering 
in  its  guns,  while  off  it  the  only  sound  was  an 
occasional  clanking  of  heavy  German  boots 
on  the  rough  cobbles.  No  one  would  take  me 
in ;  everyone  was  suspicious.  By  luck  and  in 
desperation,  I  told  a  little  girl  who  was  leading 
me  away  from  her  house  as  fast  as  she  could  that 
I  was  an  American  and  hated  "les  Allemands." 
Her  face  lit  up;  she  hurried  me  back;  pushed 
me  in  a  side  door ;  and  there  in  a  dirty  kitchen 
I  had  my  first  square  meal  in  twenty-four  hours, 
able  all  the  time  to  look  out  into  the  front  room 


78      Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

where  a  squad  of  German  soldiers  were  drinking 
heavily,  singing,  and  shouting. 

"Mon  Dieu,  the  beasts,  how  we  hate  them!" 
one  of  the  young  girls  said  to  me.  "Drink, 
drink,  drink,  nothing  but  drink  all  the  time ! 
Ah,  Monsieur,  what  a  curse  for  France  !  And  one 
of  them  tried  to  kiss  me  yesterday!" 

She  disappeared  outside  among  them,  her 
face  long  and  lugubrious,  her  heart  sick,  and  her 
soul  afraid.  Soon  her  younger  sister  returned, 
real  tragedy  in  her  expression,  but  also  a  decided 
relief  to  be  out  of  it,  even  temporarily. 

"So  it  is  all  day,"  she  sighed,  "always  drink- 
ing, singing,  shouting.  There's  just  we  three 
girls  and  mother  —  we  don't  know  what  will 
happen.  Oh,  how  we  hate  them !  Where  are 
our  soldiers,  Monsieur,  and  when  will  they  come 
back?" 

By  error,  but  more  through  the  edification  of  a 
good  dinner,  I  ventured  out  among  them.  Guns 
were  leaning  against  the  wall ;  flowing  glasses 
crowded  the  tables;  men  with  coats  off  and 
shirts  loosened,  leaned  back  in  their  chairs  sing- 
ing or  talking  loudly.     I  don't  remember  much 


In  the  Wake  of  Von  Kluck  79 

but  a  thick  atmosphere  of  smoke,  a  dirty  gray 
background  of  uniforms,  a  din  of  noise,  and  a 
great  stein  of  wine  which  appeared  suddenly 
under  my  nose.  In  a  few  minutes  I  had  to  return 
to  bed  with  all  its  contents  inside  me  and  a  fer- 
vent toast  to  the  Kaiser  to  my  credit.  Shortly, 
too,  the  celebrators  retired,  in  order  to  be  within 
the  strict  9  o'clock  curfew.  At  last  the  women 
of  the  house  after  another  day  of  strain  were 
able  to  gain  a  few  hours'  relaxation.  What  a 
life  indeed  for  those  left  behind  ! 

The  next  day  early  I  arose  with  a  firm  determi- 
nation to  catch  up  with  the  battle-line ;  spent 
part  of  the  morning  getting  over  the  surprise  of 
my  life ;  and  ended  by  being  made  a  prisoner. 

"Yes,  certainly,"  a  big  German  officer  told 
me.  "Your  pass  is  good  as  far  as  you  want  to 
go,  even  to  Paris  if  you  wish." 

Then  after  a  pause  he  added  : 

"Isn't  it  fine  we're  allies  now?" 

"Ye-s,"  I  stammered,  "bu-t  how  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"Why,  in  China,  of  course."  My  heart  almost 
stopped  beating,  for  it  was  just  as  I  was  leaving 


80     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

Paris  that  Japan  had  demanded  that  Germany 
cede  Kiao-chao. 

"  But  haven't  you  heard  ?" 

"Not  a  word,"  I  said  weakly. 

"Well,  it's  simple  enough.  Japan  demanded 
Kiao-chao ;  we  intrusted  it  to  you ;  Japan  de- 
clared war;  and  now  we're  fighting  together  out 
there." 

"Holy  smoke,"  I  exclaimed.  "I'd  better  be 
rustling  home  to  get  a  gun." 

"You  had,"  my  friend  said,  "and  if  you  want 
a  lift  part  way,  I'll  give  you  one  as  far  as  Paris." 

Great  Heavens,  I  thought,  the  Germans  in 
Paris  —  the  Germans  calling  us  allies,  believing, 
at  least,  that  we  were  at  war  with  Japan  —  most 
emphatically  an  ammunition  convoy  was  too  slow 
for  my  superexcited  state.  I  pedalled  off  at  full 
speed.  My  haste,  however,  was  short-lived. 
Ten  minutes  later  I  was  arrested.  Whether  I 
was  a  prisoner  of  war,  a  suspected  spy,  or  a  crazy 
civilian  under  convoy  I  could  not  find  out,  but 
for  the  next  three  days  I  was  virtually  the  former 
with  complete  loss  of  liberty. 


IV 

PRISONER  OF  THE  GERMANS 

Just  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  I  ran  plump 
into  two  German  bicycle  scouts,  one  of  whom 
immediately  and  in  a  most  professional  way 
started  to  appropriate  my  bicycle,  which  was 
decidedly  better  than  his  own.  My  pass,  how- 
ever, awed  him  considerably,  and  after  much 
deliberation  with  his  mate,  indicated  that  I 
could  not  go  farther  along  that  road  alone.  What 
it  was  all  about  I  did  not  know,  but  at  all  events 
he  and  his  companion  fastened  themselves  to 
me  and  stuck  —  or  rather  made  me  stick.  Off 
we  went  in  cavalcade,  a  German  with  a  gun  slung 
over  his  shoulder  on  either  side  of  me.  Soon  we 
increased  our  party  by  still  another  person. 

A  pretty   little   French   woman,   chic,    smiling, 

and  to  all  appearances   fairly  radiating  the  joy 

of  life,  stepped  out  into  the  middle  of  the  road  and 

boldly   held   us   up.     She   had   started   out   that 

G  81 


82     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

morning,  she  said,  to  find  her  two  children  who 
had  been  visiting  in  a  little  town  twelve  kilo- 
metres away.  The  Germans,  however,  had  seized 
her  machine,  leaving  her  high  and  dry  along  the 
roadway  with  an  almost  impossible  walk  before 
her. 

During  the  time  which  my  limping  French 
required  to  disentangle  all  her  excitement,  the 
two  Germans  watched  intently,  and  most  of  the 
population  near  by  crowded  about.  It  took  my 
whole  German  vocabulary  of  "zwei  kinder"  to 
explain  that  Madame  had  two  children  ;  then  it 
required  mimicking,  signs,  and  calisthenics  to 
convey  the  distance,  the  bicycle,  and  the  requisi- 
tioning. Another  long  period  —  Madame  all  the 
time  beating  the  dust  with  impatient  feet  —  and 
I  learned  that  my  guards  wanted  to  get  her  an- 
other machine. 

It  had  been  a  pathetic  story  by  a  pretty  woman 
and  I  could  see  that  the  Germans  had  tumbled 
for  it  whole-heartedly.  Thereupon,  with  Madame 
still  fluttering  about  and  half  the  village  trailing 
after  we  set  out  on  a  search  which  finally  un- 
earthed   an   old    machine    in    a    little   out-house. 


Prisoner  of  the  Germans  83 

Then,  I,  who  had  come  to  see  a  war,  pedalled 
off  with  two  German  scouts  and  a  chic  little 
woman  to  find  two  lost  children.  The  only  con- 
solation was  that  at  least  our  route  was  towards 
Paris. 

Still  no  sound  of  battle  —  still  only  putrifying 
horses  and  general  wreckage.  As  I  was  wonder- 
ing what  was  happening  ahead,  we  drew  near  a 
rough  springless  peasant's  wagon  moving  country- 
wards.  Through  the  back  could  be  seen  a  white 
figure  lying  still  and  motionless  on  an  improvised 
cot.  A  boy  of  about  sixteen  years  sat  at  the  head, 
looking  sadly,  hopelessly,  helplessly  down.  As 
we  approached,  I  saw  it  was  a  woman's  form. 
Her  mouth  was  wide  open  ;  her  eyes  already  fixed 
in  a  glazed  death's  stare.  A  warm  red  spot  on 
the  white  cloth  about  her  breast  showed  what 
had  happened.  God  knows  why ;  perhaps  she 
had  denied  herself  to  some  crazed  soldier ;  per- 
haps she  had  committed  some  hostile  act ;  per- 
haps she  was  but  another  of  those  chance  victims 
who  pay  the  cost  of  war.  We  passed  slowly, 
reverently  by,  while  the  lugubrious  wagon  trun- 
dled  slowly   on,   the   Germans,   even   as   myself, 


84     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

saddened  and  silenced.  Meanwhile  the  boy- 
watched,  dazed  and  oblivious,  for  the  spark  of 
life  that  would  be  the  last.     It  was  his  mother. 

Ah  —  was  that  distant  noise  artillery  ?  Was 
the  fighting  still  going  on  ?  We  stopped.  There 
could  be  no  doubt ;  through  the  great  woods 
about  us  came  the  faint,  faint  growl  of  distant 
battle.  Thank  God,  the  French  were  not  yet 
vanquished.  The  dismal  flight  I  had  been  fol- 
lowing had  at  last  caught  breath.  That  magni- 
ficent machine  which  I  had  begun  to  hate  for  its 
very  magnificence,  and  which  even  now  had  me, 
too,  in  its  coils,  was  at  last  meeting  resistance. 

Our  little  cavalcade  increased  its  pace  as  though 
being  drawn  into  the  vortex.  Soon  we  ran  into 
a  great  mass  of  artillery,  grimy  and  ugly,  manoeu- 
vring to  deliver  a  flanking  movement  down  a  side 
road.  As  we  started  to  cross  a  big  bridge,  a 
chorus  of  shouts  greeted  us  and  we  looked  behind 
us  into  the  barrels  of  lowered  guns.  We  scram- 
bled madly  back,  but  neither  our  two  guards 
nor  Madame's  pretty  face  could  prevail  with  a 
distempered  officer.  Off  we  went,  then,  across 
country  on  a  wide  detour. 


Prisoner  of  the  Germans  85 

When  at  last  we  arrived,  Madame  went  ex- 
citedly to  the  house  where  the  two  children  had 
been.  It  was  closed  and  shuttered.  She  ques- 
tioned a  few  sympathetic  villagers,  only  to  learn 
that  all  the  family  had  fled  out  into  the  distance 
two  days  before.  For  just  a  moment  she  com- 
pletely lost  herself.  In  crazed  desperation  she 
rushed    about    shouting : 

"Charlotte,  Charlotte,  Madame  Fernay,  Char- 
lotte." 

Quickly,  however,  she  noticed  us  watching 
sympathetically.  Instantly  she  caught  hold  of 
herself.  Her  desperation  melted  in  a  smile  and 
an  indifferent  remark.  Never  again  did  she  so 
much  as  once  give  way  to  those  feelings  bursting 
within  her.  Never  again  did  she  falter.  Only 
occasionally  she  looked  helplessly,  pathetically 
down  the  open  road  whither  her  loved  ones 
had  fled. 

The  two  Germans  requisitioned  bread  and 
food ;  commandeered  a  big  house  and  the  ser- 
vices of  all  people  therein  living.  In  its  large 
dining-room,  with  guns  beside  us  and  half  the 
population    gaping    wide-eyed    in    through    the 


86     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

windows,  we  had  a  huge  lunch  which  I  believe 
is  the  dream  of  the  German  soldier.  Madame 
announced  that  she  would  return  to  Compiegne ; 
the  two  Germans  replied  that  they  would  accom- 
pany her;  and  then  to  my  horror  that  I  would 
come  too.  Never  had  I  been  so  disgusted  with  gal- 
lantry. Back  then  we  trundled  eighteen  kilo- 
metres, even  while  the  German  artillery  could  be 
heard  beating  against  Paris.  During  all  that  long, 
tiresome  ride,  Madame  kept  up  her  courageous 
appearance.  Little  she  cared  for  the  war  that 
was  going  on  about  her.  Uhlans  clattered  past ; 
dead  horses  stank  by  the  roadside;  the  rumble  of 
battle  came  from  behind,  but  not  a  sign  did  that 
distracted  mother  give  of  the  anguish  within  her. 
Heaven  knows  what  happened  to  her  children, 
but  if  they  know  how  to  suffer  as  their  mother 
knew,  they  will  not  prove  unworthy  of  the  Re- 
public. 

The  next  day,  for  the  second  time,  I  set  out 
from  Compiegne  for  Senlis,  the  two  Germans 
still  sticking  to  me  like  burs.  On  the  way  we 
entered  a  dangerous-looking  town,  ugly  and 
deserted,  from   the    middle  of   which   the   bleak, 


Prisoner  of  the  Germans  87 

mediaeval  walls  of  the  Chateau  de  Raray  rose 
in  grim  sullenness.  There  had  been  a  nasty 
fight  there,  for  the  side  buildings  were  scarred  and 
the  grounds  littered  with  the  refuse  of  the  en- 
campments of  three  armies.  Strangely  enough 
the  only  person  left  to  welcome  us  as  we  entered 
the  front  grounds  was  the  German  housekeeper. 
It  gave  me  the  uncanny  feeling  that  here  lay  un- 
covered one  of  those  many  small  nerve-centres 
which  had  so  well  served  the  German  General 
Staff. 

She  welcomed  us  most  cordially,  almost  too 
cordially,  I  thought,  and  in  a  gorgeous  dining- 
room  in  great  disorder  gave  us  an  excellent  lunch. 
The  great  building  fairly  echoed  with  its  sudden 
desertion.  German  soldiers,  following  close  on 
French  soldiers,  who  in  turn  followed  close  on 
the  fleeing  owners,  had  left  it  in  pitiful  confusion. 
Every  room  was  choked  with  mattresses,  half- 
empty  wine  bottles,  and  the  already  rancid 
leavings  of  hasty  meals.  The  beautiful  parlor, 
with  long  lines  of  ancestral  portraits,  rare  tapes- 
tries, and  luxurious  furnishings,  had  served  as 
headquarters  for  two  higher  officers.     Two  large 


88      Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

mattresses  desecrated  the  floor,  and  the  remnants 
of  breakfast  were  putrifying  just  as  they  had 
been  left  several  days  before. 

Upstairs  all  was  in  equally  violent  confusion. 
Not  a  drawer  but  had  been  opened ;  not  a  single 
family  possession  but  had  been  gone  over  by  curi- 
ous German  eyes.  Apparently  nothing  had  been 
sacred.  Whether  it  had  been  a  search  for  loot 
or  mere  morbid  curiosity  to  see  how  French  aris- 
tocracy lived  I  do  not  know,  but  I  could  not  help 
wondering  why  soldiers  should  have  been  given 
so  much  liberty.  My  two  friends  in  their  turn 
went  over  everything,  even  including  the  wine 
cellar,  and  offered  me  whatever  I  wanted.  Un- 
fortunately —  and  it  nearly  ended  my  career 
later  —  rapacity  overcame  me  and  I  took  a  splen- 
did volume  of  Hugo's  "  Les  Miserables."  Whether 
it  was  a  feeling  of  guilt,  the  lonesomeness  of 
the  chateau,  or  the  rumble  of  battle,  I  do  not 
know,  but  it  seemed  to  me  we  would  never  be 
on.  Finally,  just  as  we  were  leaving,  a  squad  of 
six  Uhlans,  gray,  sombre,  mediaeval-looking,  with 
spears  lowered,  clattered  warily  in  at  the  gate 
as  though   indeed  into  a  fifteenth-century  castle. 


Prisoner  of  the  Germans  89 

Received  only  by  two  German  bicycle  scouts, 
a  German  housekeeper,  an  American  corre- 
spondent, and  the  portraits  of  deserted  French 
ancestors,  they  proceeded  in  their  turn  to  pore 
over  the  family  possessions. 

At  last,  joyfully,  we  sped  on  from  the  chateau 
towards  Paris.  Every  turn  of  the  wheel  seemed 
to  bring  us  nearer  the  great  struggle  which  I  had 
now  been  pursuing  from  the  Belgian  border. 
What  in  the  morning  had  been  a  faint  rumble 
had  now  become  a  distinct  succession  of  shocks 
breaking  through  a  steady  growl.  It  must  be 
the  forts  of  Paris,  I  thought,  for  now  we  were 
not  thirty  miles  out.  It  was  something  at  least 
to  know  that  the  capital  still  held  out. 

About  twilight  we  came  to  the  outskirts  of  Senlis, 
a  pretty  little  town  about  twenty-five  miles  from 
Paris.  We  passed  down  a  long  avenue  of  beauti- 
ful homes,  all  shut  and  unoccupied  and  as  life- 
less as  though  swept  by  a  sudden  plague.  Some 
had  evidently  been  broken  into;  before  others 
were  mattresses,  tables,  furniture,  and  straw. 
It  was  as  though  some  giant  had  stopped  a  mo- 
ment, sucked  out  the  household  goods,  and  passed 


QO     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

on  into  silence.  For  one  long  mile  we  rode 
through  this  Pompeian  desertion  without  seeing 
a  single  soul. 

We  turned  a  corner  —  a  mass  of  red,  molten 
flame  flared  up  to  heaven  in  utter  solitude,  no 
one  about,  no  sign  of  life,  no  attempt  to  stop  the 
devastation.  To  the  left  the  skeleton  of  the 
railroad  station  lay  charred  and  blackened.  To 
the  right  the  Hotel  du  Nord  and  the  whole  Rue 
de  la  Republique  leapt  forth  in  flames  in  unli- 
censed fury. 

I  shuddered  as  we  started  down  that  street. 
Flames  shot  out  at  us  from  both  sides.  Hot 
walls,  all  ready  to  crumble,  leaned  over  on  top 
of  us.  Broken  telephone  and  telegraph  wires 
lay  strewn  about  with  now  and  then  what  had 
once  been  a  wall.  Not  a  sound  but  the  crackling 
of  the  flames ;  not  a  person  to  be  seen.  Never 
has  devastation  reigned  more  undisputed.  I 
had  every  inclination  to  stop,  to  grasp  this 
destruction,  to  find  its  justification,  but  my 
two  guardians  picked  their  way  gingerly  but 
determinedly  along  as  if  it  were  but  an  everyday 
occurrence. 


Ruins  of  Senlis,  twenty-five  miles  from  Paris,  where  the  major 
and  sixteen  councilmen  were  shot  and  the  main  streets  put 
to  the  flames  as  Mr.  Sweetser  bicycled  in  under  guard. 


Prisoner  of  the  Germans  91 

I  pointed  to  the  devastation.     "Why  ?"  I  asked. 

With  hardly  a  quaver  one  of  them  imitated 
the  firing  of  a  gun  and  uttered  the  laconic  remark 
"Civilians."  So,  for  this  civilian  resistance  a 
good  part  of  the  town  had  been  put  to  the  flames, 
and  more,  I  learned  later,  for  the  Mayor  and  six- 
teen councilmen  were  marched  ofF  and  shot.  The 
Germans  claimed  that  this  was  merely  military 
retaliation ;  that  they  had  been  met  by  an  or- 
ganized volley  when  they  were  entering  the  city 
after  its  surrender.  Heaven  knows  if  this  is  true ; 
at  all  events  it  caused  no  worry  to  my  friends. 

We  rounded  another  corner,  and  saw  what 
seemed  a  sea  of  dusty  gray  uniforms  in  the  city's 
main  business  square.  As  my  splendid  bicycle, 
ridden  by  a  civilian,  came  into  sight,  a  wave  of 
that  gray  surged  forwards  to  seize  it.  Never  have 
I  felt  so  lost,  so  helpless. 

"Americanisch,"  shouted  out  one  of  my  friends. 
Immediately  the  eager  lustful  look  in  the  eyes 
before  me  disappeared  and  hands  were  stretched 
out  from  all  sides.  I  was  almost  stunned  by 
the  change  and  was  not  aided  in  recovering  my- 
self   by    hearing    a    dozen    streams    of    German 


92      Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

thrown  at  me.  Somehow,  with  the  background 
of  flames  behind  me,  the  unrestrained  looting 
before  me,  and  the  fever  heat  in  which  men's 
passions  were  running,  I  did  not  like  the  situation 
at  all.     I  stayed  close  to  my  two  friends. 

Together  we  walked  about  through  the  wild 
confusion  of  the  shopping  district.  Practically 
every  door  stood  wide  open  to  the  world,  owners 
fled  and  gray  uniforms  passing  ceaselessly  in 
and  out.  Never  will  I  forget  a  splendid  shoe- 
store  where  everything  had  been  pulled  down 
from  the  walls  and  piled  knee-deep  on  the  floor. 
An  incessant  stream  of  foot-sore  Germans  filed 
in  and  out,  kicking  over  the  goods  till  they  found 
what  they  wanted,  and  then  to  show  their  good- 
nature, tossing  out  the  most  expensive  footwear 
to  the  few  bold  French  paupers  who  of  all  the 
civilian  population  alone  remained.  Somehow 
it  capped  the  destruction  that  the  now  useless 
necessities  of  life  should  go  to  the  last  dregs 
of  the  city's  population. 

"Peter,"  said  a  voice  from  within  the  store,  and 
one  of  my  guards  went  in.  Soon  he  returned  with 
his  mate,  whom  I  now  learned  was  named  Georg. 


Prisoner  of  the  Germans  93 

"Nicht  gut,"  said  Georg,  pointing  to  my  shoes. 
"  Kommen-sie." 

They  led  me  into  the  confusion  of  the  store. 
I  cannot  convey  the  medley  of  feelings  that  rose 
within  me  when  I  found  they  wanted  me  to  equip 
myself  with  new  shoes  from  the  poor  French- 
man's stock.  I  refused.  Georg  seemed  deeply 
hurt,  as  much  as  to  say,  "How  foolish  of  you," 
and  then  to  prove  he  felt  no  ill-feeling,  tied  a  pair 
of  gaiters  to  my  bicycle.  It  was  as  much  as 
saying  he  would  be  a  good  fellow  even  if  I  wouldn't. 

Across  the  road  the  handsome  glass  door  of  a 
fine  drugstore  yawned  wide  open,  as  if  beseeching 
human  companionship.  The  loneliness  of  the 
shining  cases  and  the  rows  of  bottles  depressed  us 
even  as  we  entered.  Shortly  a  woman  appeared 
in  the  doorway,  a  terrified  peasant  woman  who 
had  been  driven  out  of  her  home  into  that  veri- 
table inferno  by  her  baby's  need  for  medicine. 
She  faltered  when  she  saw  that  the  Germans 
were  there  also,  but  soon  her  maternal  instinct 
overcame  her  terror  and  I  was  able  to  coax  her 
inside.  Trembling,  she  held  out  a  prescription. 
By  one  of  war's  queer  chances  Peter  had  been  a 


94     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

pharmacist  before  he  was  a  soldier.  When  he 
had  filled  the  prescription,  fear,  hatred,  and 
nationality  fled  from  her.  Only  the  thought  of 
the  sick  child  remained  as  she  rushed  joyously 
out  on  to  the  open  street  through  those  loot- 
crazed  men  to  her  home.  What  mattered  the 
war  to  her,  or  the  burning  of  the  city,  or  the  loot- 
ing ?  For  her  there  was  only  that  sacred  bravery 
of  motherhood ;  for  all  she  cared  the  Germans 
might  go  where  they  pleased. 

In  a  stationery  store  near  by  we  found,  strangely 
enough,  that  the  owner  had  not  fled.  He  wel- 
comed us  most  cordially  as  we  entered  and  showed 
us  his  wares  with  every  solicitude  to  please. 
We  might  indeed  have  been  his  most  honored 
customers.  Then,  with  a  blank-book,  paper,  and 
post-cards  picked  out,  I  asked  the  price. 

"Ah,  9a  n'est  rien,  Monseiur,  nothing  at  all," 
he  said  with  a  sweeping  bow.  "Only  give  me 
the  sign,  if  you  please,"  and  he  held  out  a  piece 
of  chalk  to  the  two  Germans. 

"Yah,  yah,"  said  Georg,  earnestly.  He  at 
once  went  out  and  wrote  on  the  door  in  great 
German  letters  : 


Prisoner  of  the  Germans  95 

"Nicht  zu  pliindern;  gute  leute."  It  was  the 
German  way  of  telling  his  comrades  not  to  harm 
the  good  people  within  ;  the  sign  I  had  seen  occa- 
sionally all  the  way  from  Belgium ;  the  strongest 
protection  to  property  that  now  remained  ;  Mon- 
sieur bowed  deeply  and  gratefully.  Poor  chap, 
it  was  the  only  insurance  he  could  get.  He 
would  willingly  have  given  us  his  shop  for  it. 

Finally  it  came  time  for  supper  and  prepara- 
tions for  the  night,  and  I  looked  forwards  with 
trepidation  to  a  German  army  camp.  Not  this, 
however,  for  Georg  and  Peter.  We  set  out 
from  that  scene  of  looting,  passed  once  more 
through  the  burning  section  which  now  glowed 
all  the  redder  in  the  sunset,  and  arrived  in  the 
best  residential  section,  which  likewise  appeared 
all  the  more  tragic  and  desolate. 

"Das  ist  gut  ?"  asked  Georg  of  me,  as  he  pointed 
to  a  splendid  big  mansion. 

"Yah,  sehr  gut,"  I  replied,  wondering  all  the 
time  if  he  were  a  real  estate  agent  or  a  second- 
story  man.     We    pedalled    on    a    minute    when, 
pointing  critically  to  another  house,  he  asked : 
"Besser?" 


96     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 


a 


:Yes,  yes,"  I  said,  "much  better." 
At  last,  with  all  the  care  of  connoisseurs,  the 
two  Germans  picked  out  the  finest  house  in  the 
section.  It  lay  silent  and  unoccupied  in  beauti- 
ful grounds,  every  blind  drawn  and  a  confusion  of 
furniture,  mattresses,  straw,  bottles,  and  dishes  on 
the  lawn.  We  entered  under  a  big  gate  and  forced 
our  way  in  through  a  side  door.  The  two  Ger- 
mans, guns  fixed,  went  from  room  to  room,  floor 
to  floor,  making  fast  every  door  and  window,  and 
examining  every  nook  and  corner  to  make  sure 
not  to  be  interrupted.  At  last  we  felt  ourselves 
as  much  at  home  as  if  in  our  own  castle. 

Georg  and  Peter,  guns  stacked,  ammunition 
belts  and  coats  removed,  themselves  stripped  to 
thin,  sleeveless  undershirts,  set  about  most  me- 
thodically to  get  dinner.  It  was  all  so  professional 
and  business-like  that  I  felt  entirely  useless. 
No  sooner,  however,  had  I  set  out  to  see  what 
sort  of  house  we  were  in  than  a  voice  from  down 
cellar  called  : 

"Americanisch,   kommen-sie  hier." 
I   went  —  and   chopped   wood   enough   for   an 
army. 


Prisoner  of  the  Germans  97 

Again  I  set  out  to  see  the  house;  again  that 
command.  This  time  I  peeled  potatoes  till  I 
thought  we  must  be  supplying  the  whole  city. 
Once  more  I  started  off;  once  more  Georg  bel- 
lowed me  down-stairs.  This  time  I  found  him 
standing  with  eyes  wide  open  and  smile  stretch- 
ing from  ear  to  ear,  pointing  to  a  cellar  and  say- 
ing excitedly : 

"Gut,  gut." 

It  was  a  splendid  wine-cellar. 

"Yah,  bestest  gut,"  I  answered. 

Somehow,  in  our  sudden  close  affinity  he  made 
me  understand  that  he  wanted  to  know  whether 
I  preferred  red  wine  or  white.  "  Red,"  I  answered, 
and  he  took  up  an  armful  of  both.  Decidedly 
it  was  going  to  be  a  happy  evening. 

Rather  ashamed  of  my  inability  to  cook,  I 
decided  to  be  at  least  the  wife  of  the  family  and 
lay  the  table.  So,  while  the  sizzling  of  German 
fried  potatoes  and  the  aroma  of  a  juicy  steak 
were  coming  in  from  the  kitchen,  I  prepared  for  a 
regal  feast.  A  beautiful  drop-light  over  the  centre 
of  the  table  and  two  splendid  six-flame  candelabra 
on   a   magnificent    mahogany  mantel-piece,   gave 


98      Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

forth  a  warm  soft  light  that  was  anything  but  the 
light  of  war  and  a  looted  home.  Madame's  best 
service  fitted  up  the  table  royally,  and  four  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  liquor  and  Monsieur's  proudest 
vintage  lent  a  comfortable,  home-like  coloring. 

The  steak  had  been  cooked  to  perfection  and 
the  potatoes  browned  to  a  turn.  Peter  and  Georg 
were  most  good-natured  and  kept  asking: 

"1st  das  gut?" 

To  which  I  inanely  replied : 

"Yah,  yah." 

To  put  a  little  personality  into  our  strange 
feast,  I  gave  them  a  toast,  not  to  the  Kaiser  but 
to  the  Fatherland.  Their  evident  appreciation, 
however,  fled  in  perplexed  looks  and  in  rapid 
questions.  Then  Georg,  lifting  his  glass  towards 
me,  said  : 

"To  President  Roosevelt." 

Apparently  they  had  not  heard  that  we  had 
twice  since  Roosevelt's  day  changed  Presidents ; 
perhaps,  even,  they  knew  of  no  other  American. 

It  must  have  been  a  droll  sight  —  two  Ger- 
mans with  loaded  guns  at  their  side  and  an  Ameri- 
can journalist  who  understood  no  word  they  said. 


Prisoner  of  the  Germans  99 

What,  I  wondered,  would  Madame  have  said  if 
she  could  have  looked  in  on  this  strange  party  ? 
We  had  made  ourselves  so  absolutely  at  home 
that  even  the  sombre  gray  of  the  German 
uniform  seemed  to  fit  in  with  the  surroundings. 
Until  suddenly  —  crash  —  something  up-stairs  — 
liquor  glasses  set  down  —  Peter  to  his  gun  — 
bayonet  fixed  —  trigger  set  —  tiptoeing  into  the 
hall. 

Quick,  what  was  I,  German,  French,  or  Ameri- 
can ?  And  how  to  say  it  quickly  enough  ?  Would 
one  have  time  to  be  neutral  ?     No ! 

"  Kommen-sie,"  whispered  Georg.  "Kommen- 
sie  mit  den  licht." 

I  came.  My  neutrality  was  gone.  I  was 
scared  to  death.  Up-stairs  we  started,  Georg 
in  front  with  fixed  bayonet,  I  next  with  shaking 
lamp,  Peter  behind  with  fixed  bayonet.  Never 
have  I  felt  so  helplessly  innocent.  Obviously, 
I  as  lamp-bearer  would  be  the  first  — 

We  entered  a  bedroom.  Georg  prodded  with 
his  bayonet  under  the  bed,  into  the  comforters, 
through  the  closet ;  no  one.  He  entered  another 
room.     My  arm  with  the  lamp  followed  around 


ioo     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

the  corner;  then,  when  I  was  sure  there  was  no 
shot,  I  whisked  around  after  them.  And  so  all 
over  the   house,   finding  nothing. 

Still,  the  scare  put  a  damper  on  the  evening, 
and  we  decided  to  turn  in.  We  selected  Madame's 
finest  chamber  with  a  beautiful  mahogany  bed 
in  the  middle  and  all  the  implements  of  a  French 
woman's  toilet  about.  Not  daring  to  divide 
forces,  a  mattress  was  dragged  in  for  Peter. 
One  door  was  barricaded  by  a  big  bureau,  the 
other  by  a  heavy  safe.  Thus,  with  loaded  guns 
at  our  side  we  spent  the  night  in  one  of  Senlis' 
finest   mansions. 

The  next  day  was  a  nightmare.  We  awoke 
early  with  the  rumble  of  heavy  guns  not  far 
away.  It  was  only  forty  kilometres  to  Paris;  it 
must  be  France's  last  stand.  Heavens,  how  slow 
those  two  Germans  were  getting  breakfast ! 
Would  we  never  be  off  to  the  greatest  battle  in 
history  ?  So  near  —  and  yet  all  I  could  get  of  it 
was   the   rumble.     Would   France   hold  ? 

Breakfast  at  last  —  finished  —  we  would  be  off. 
No !  The  two  Germans  strolled  out  on  to  the 
back  lawn  and  invited  me  to  sit  down. 


Prisoner  of  the  Germans  101 

"Die  Vaterland,"  I  implored,  pointing  whence 
the  rumble  came.  "  Die  Vaterland."  But  neither 
vehemence  nor  appeals  to  patriotism  would 
arouse  them.  All  morning  long  we  sat  there ; 
all  morning  while  von  Kluck  was  hammering 
away  at  the  Marne.  Georg  and  Peter,  I  learned, 
were  scouts  ordered  to  quarters  at  Ecouen,  a 
suburb  actually  within  the  walls  of  Paris.  But 
the  knowledge  did  not  make  me  feel  any  better. 

At  last,  just  as  dusk  was  falling,  we  set  out. 
Action,  action,  any  kind  of  action  I  had  prayed 
for  all  day  as  the  big  guns  pounded,  but  when  we 
got  back  to  the  ruins  of  the  business  section,  and 
I  learned  what  sort  of  action  it  was  to  be,  it  seemed 
as  if  I  must  get  down  in  the  dust  and  howl  from 
very  helplessness.  '  For  it  was  to  turn  back; 
turn  back  after  having  come  so  far;  turn  back 
after  having  been  so  near ;  turn  back  once  more 
to  that  city  of  Compiegne  which  I  had  twice 
already  left. 

With  a  scattering  force  of  about  200  Uhlans 
and  bicycle  scouts,  we  rode  away  from  the  ruins 
of  Senlis  out  into  the  sunset,  back  towards  Ger- 
many,— the  beginning,  as  I  learned  later,  of  the 


102     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

Teutonic  collapse  at  the  Marne,  even  in  sight  of 
the  Eiffel  Tower  itself.  Great  God,  what  was 
happening  ?  What  did  this  retreat  mean  ?  Was 
it  possible  that  this  superhuman  machine  was 
breaking  down  at  last  ? 

In  cold,  damp  darkness  we  arrived  at  our  old 
Chateau  de  Raray  where  we  expected  to  spend 
the  night,  but  alas,  what  havoc  !  Two  companies 
of  German  soldiers  had  settled  on  it  like  a  plague. 
An  officer  with  flashing  lamp  flayed  us  with  a 
flood  of  anger  which  had  neither  cause  nor  mean- 
ing to  me,  but  only  brought  pity  for  those  who 
had  to  bear  such  abuse.  We  hastened  on  miles 
and  miles  more  in  the  night  to  Verberie,  passing 
now  and  then  scattered  groups  of  Germans  and 
once  a  lone  gray  soldier  driving  aimlessly  about 
the  country  in  a  commandeered  horse  and  wagon. 
Apparently  he  had  no  idea  where  he  was  going 
and  didn't  much  care,  for  the  moonlight  was 
wonderful  and  the  air  clear  and  crisp. 

When  at  last  we  arrived  at  Verberie,  all  was 
black,  sepulchral,  ominously  quiet,  except  for 
the  shrill,  uncanny  screams  of  a  wounded  French 
prisoner  who  was  being  unloaded  from  a   large 


Prisoner  of  the  Germans  103 

German  autobus.  We  were  not  fastidious  this 
time  in  selecting  a  home,  for  it  was  unpleasantly 
dangerous  to  be  out  at  that  hour.  We  selected 
one  in  a  block.  Georg  broke  open  a  window, 
climbed  in  with  fixed  bayonet  and  an  acetylene 
lamp  from  his  bicycle,  and  examined  it  while  we 
stood  guard  outside.  'Twas  a  simple  habitation, 
evidently  the  unostentatious  quarters  of  a  middle- 
aged  bachelor  who  made  a  small  living  by  mak- 
ing fishing  tackle.  Still,  when  well  barricaded,  it 
provided  us  with  a  good  supper  and  a  night's 
rest. 

Breakfast  next  morning  was  strained.  I  had 
decided  not  to  go  back  further. 

When  we  went  out  into  the  road  to  leave,  their 
bicycles  were  pointed  towards  Compiegne ;  mine 
I  set  towards  Paris. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  I  asked. 

"To  Compiegne,"  Georg  replied. 

"I  go  to  Paris,"  I  said  with  firm  determina- 
tion.    "Auf  wiedersehn." 

"No,  come  with  us,"  he  said. 

"Nein,"  I  answered  stiffly,  and  for  lack  of 
words    flashed    out   my   German    pass    to    Paris. 


104    Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

They  consulted.  A  breathless  moment  for  me 
indeed. 

"Franzose,"  and  Georg  imitated  Frenchmen 
shooting  me. 

"Nein,"  I  said,  flashing  out  my  American  pass- 
port. They  looked  at  me  pityingly  as  though  I 
were  crazy. 

"Auf  wiedersehn,"  I  said,  firmly  holding  out 
my  hand.  A  moment's  hesitation  and  Georg 
took  it ;  likewise  Peter.  By  looks  if  not  by 
words  we  conveyed  the  good  feelings  that  had 
arisen  between  us.  I  jumped  on  my  bicycle ; 
started  towards  Paris ;  wondered  if  they  would 
call  me  back ;  looked  over  my  shoulder  to  see 
them  still  watching  hopelessly ;  and  waved 
again. 

I  was  free  once  more,  free  to  go  to  the  world's 
battle  I  had  been  pursuing  all  the  way  from  the 
Belgian  border. 


PRISONER  OF  THE   FRENCH 

Ah,  what  joy  to  be  at  liberty  once  more,  to 
be  my  own  master,  not  to  have  to  come  at  the 
beck  and  call  of  two  men  hardly  one  word  of 
whose  language  I  understood.  Faintly,  ever  so 
faintly,  I  could  hear  the  rumble  of  artillery  in 
the  distance.  With  a  sort  of  wild  exultation  I 
drove  my  wheel  faster.  At  last  I  should  see  the 
labor  of  this   world   crisis. 

Perhaps  it  is  morbid,  this  curiosity,  but  it 
surely  is  irresistible.  I  was  now  squarely  be- 
tween the  lines,  yet  I  felt  no  fear.  I  might  be 
arrested  as  a  spy  at  any  second  by  either  side,  and 
yet  that  had  no  interest  for  me.  I  was  enthralled, 
mesmerized,  overcome,  what  you  will,  by  the 
enormity  of  the  forces  before  me.  No  longer 
was  I  a  person,  an  individuality,  a  unit  with  hopes 
and  fears ;  rather  I  was  but  a  straw  drawn  ir- 
resistibly into  the  vortex.  Man  is  indeed  puny 
before  such  a  crisis. 

105 


106    Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

And  yet  I  did  feci  a  chilling  loneliness  all  the 
while.  Consciously,  though  more  subconsciously, 
I  realized  that  I  had  no  French  papers  and  I 
felt  that  I  would  be  gobbled  up  in  a  second  as 
soon  as  the  French  saw  me.  Heaven  alone 
knew  how  desperate  they  would  be  after  their 
three  weeks'  retreat  and  during  their  final  stand 
under  the  walls  of  Paris.  For  two  hours  I  pedalled 
rapidly,  with  neither  French  nor  German  sol- 
diers to  be  seen,  but  with  the  noise  of  the  battle 
sounding  ever  nearer.  Senlis  I  entered  once 
more,  this  time  very  guardedly,  for  surely  the 
French  must  have  arrived  by  now.  The  city 
seemed  even  more  desolate  than  before,  for  the 
buildings  which  then  had  been  a  surging  mass  of 
red  flame  now  lay  sullenly  smoking  in  crumbled 
ruin.     Even  the  dingy  German  gray  was  absent. 

Only  two  persons  I  saw,  a  well-to-do  civilian 
who  was  pointing  out  to  his  wife  with  his  um- 
brella every  detail  of  the  destruction  as  if  in  pur- 
posed self-torture.  When  I  asked  if  the  Ger- 
mans had  gone,  he  said  : 

"Yes,  and  may  the  curse  of  God  go  with  them. 
We'll  hound  them  back  till  every  one  of  them  is 


Prisoner  of  the  French  107 

dead  or  fenced  in  in  Germany."  And  he  went 
on  with  a  steady  flow  of  imprecation  and  curses 
which  were  all  the  more  terrible  for  being  care- 
fully weighed  and  reasoned.  Senlis,  then,  was 
not  occupied  by  either  side.  It  was  left  alone 
to  its  dead  and  its  ruins,  a  place  to  pass  with  a 
shudder. 

Off  to  the  left  I  veered  towards  Meaux,  whence 
seemed  to  come  the  heaviest  firing.  About  noon 
I  entered  the  little  village  of  Ermenonville. 
Everyone  was  on  the  streets.  People  questioned 
each  other  fearfully.  All  regular  human  activity 
had  ceased.     "Les  Allemands,"  some  one  said. 

Could  it  be  true,  I  wondered,  that  the  Ger- 
mans were  way  down  here  ?  I  made  as  quickly 
as  possible  up  a  steep  street  leading  from  the 
main  square  and  waited.  By  all  odds  I  did  not 
want  to  get  caught  again  by  them.  Despite 
their  courtesy  to  me  and  their  pass  to  Paris,  which 
was  still  in  my  possession,  I  preferred  an  unknown 
fate  at  the  hands  of  the  French. 

A  civilian  accosted  me  suspiciously.  Just  then 
the  people  in  the  square  below  began  to  flee  in 
three    directions.     There    was    no    shouting,    no 


108     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

reason  evident.  For  several  moments  all  was 
tomb-like.  We  watched  fascinated.  Suddenly 
a  horse's  head  came  slowly,  cautiously,  into  sight. 
Then  a  spear,  a  gray-uniformed  body  leaning 
forward  peering  up  and  down  each  street.  Slowly, 
more  slowly  than  one  would  think  a  horse  could 
move,  he  advanced  to  the  centre  of  the  square. 

Ambushed,  perhaps,  defenceless,  victim  of 
the  first  sniper,  he  was  the  advance  guard  of  a 
little  squad  of  Uhlans,  who  in  the  first  days  of 
the  war  were  the  eyes  and  ears  of  the  Kaiser's 
forces.  He  was  indeed  a  brave  man.  For  some 
time  he  looked,  then  two  companions  came  up. 
Not  a  civilian  moved ;  even  the  garrulous  per- 
son next  to  me  was  hushed.  Shortly,  as  quietly 
and  spectre-like  as  they  had  come,  they  departed. 
At  once  the  bravery  of  the  man  next  me  returned. 
He  became  ugly.  Evidently  he  connected  me 
with  the  Uhlans  and  possibly  thought  me  a  spy. 
It  is  that  kind  whom  one  fears  most,  so  I  made 
off  as  rapidly  as  possible.  He  stood  in  the  road- 
way behind,  alternately  shouting  that  I  ought 
to  be  shot,  and  warning  me  that  I  take  all  care 
against  it.     Such  is  war's  effects  on  nerves. 


Prisoner  of  the  French  109 

Artillery  was  very  audible  now  as  I  entered 
the  sun-flecked  roadway  of  a  luxurious  wood. 
Everything  except  for  that  was  calm  with  the 
quiet  of  Nature  and  the  serenity  of  Indian  sum- 
mer. Way  down  the  road  —  was  it  a  group  of 
men  ?  —  I  might  be  wrong  —  the  lights  were  so 
deceiving  —  yet  'twould  be  well  to  be  cautious. 
But  wait  —  yes  —  a  group  of  figures,  horsemen 

—  a  little  block  of  red  —  could  it  be  —  hullo  — 
one  is  galloping  towards  me  —  I  have  been  seen 

—  my  race  for  the  time  is  run.  Was  it  by  any 
chance,  yes,  God  be  praised  it  was,  —  it  was  the 
advance  guard  of  France's  army  before  Paris  — 
at  last ! 

With  gun  lowered,  the  horseman  bore  down 
on  me  rapidly.  Evidently  a  lone  bicyclist  wear- 
ing a  straw  hat  and  carrying  a  suit-case  tied  to 
the  front  of  his  bicycle  looked  suspicious.  Any- 
way the  horseman  was  business-like.  I  jumped 
off  my  machine  at  once  and  held  up  both  hands. 
He  reared  up  before  me  with  a  volley  of  questions. 
Convinced  I .  meant  no  harm,  he  led  me  back, 
telling  me  on  the  way  that  I  had  arrived  just  as 


no     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

they  were  going  to  shoot  three  German  prisoners 
whom  they  could  not  take  with  them.  We 
approached  a  small  squad  of  French  cavalry. 
Ah,  how  good  it  seemed  at  last  to  see  again  their 
warm  red  uniforms,  to  know  that  France  still 
fought !  Such  a  wave  of  emotion  swept  over  me 
that  for  the  minute  I  entirely  forgot  my  personal 
situation.  The  dapper  little  officer  on  his  wiry 
pony  typified  France,  stood  as  an  outpost  to 
say  that  the  Republic,  though  giving  way  before 
the  fearful  machine  loosed  against  it,  was  still 
standing. 

"Americanisch,"  in  raucous  German  suddenly 
grated  on  my  ears.  I  looked  in  horror  to  find 
one  of  the  three  German  prisoners  smiling  at  me. 
Great  Heavens,  could  I  never  escape  them  ? 
Must  they  pursue  me  even  here  ?  And  wasn't 
my  situation  bad  enough  already  ?  I  smiled  a 
sickly  smile ;  indeed  I  remembered  him  all  too 
well  as  one  of  the  loot-crazed  soldiers  who  two 
days  before  had  tried  to  steal  my  bicycle  amid 
the  flames  of  Senlis. 

A  splendid  introduction  this  !  The  horsemen 
eyed    me   even   more   keenly.     I   handed   up   my 


Prisoner  of  the  French  in 

American  passport  to  the  dapper  little  officer, 
who  read  it,  asked  a  few  questions,  and  started 
off  down  a  side  road.  Was  I  to  follow  ?  I  asked. 
Oh  no,  go  right  ahead  where  I  had  been  going. 
Good  Lord,  how  simple !  Apparently  I  could 
go  right  through  to  Paris. 

Shortly  the  woods  ended  —  a  great  blur  of  red 
and  blue  lay  squarely  before  me.  A  big  division 
of  French  cavalry,  strong,  powerful-looking,  fear- 
some, held  ready  to  mount  at  a  moment's  notice. 
My  heart  seemed  to  stop.  A  mad  desire  to  turn 
and  run  —  I  dared  not  enter  that  great  mass  — 
but  equally  I  dared  not  turn  back.  Nor  could 
I  dally  any  longer  between  the  lines.  Obviously 
it  was  now  or  never. 

With  all  the  boldness  I  could  muster  I  went 
on.  A  small  outlying  squad  was  resting  in  the 
shade  of  a  clump  of  trees.  I  expected  a  chal- 
lenge, bayonets,  excitement.  No  one  stirred. 
I  dismounted  and  waited  not  ten  feet  away,  still 
unchallenged.  Somehow  I  did  not  dare  to  jump 
on  and  chance  getting  away ;  yet  it  did  seem  like 
suicide  to  give  myself  up.  I  walked  in  among 
the  men  till  I  found  an  officer  dozing.     A  touch 


1 1 2    Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

on  the  shoulder  and  he  jumped  to  his  feet  with 
wild  astonishment  in  his  eyes. 

"Who  are  you?" 

"An  American." 

"What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"I'm  a  war  correspondent." 

"Where  did  you  come  from?" 

"The  German  lines." 

"Ooh-la-la,  mon  capitaine  will  want  to  see  you." 

His  face  clouded  into  severity.  Several  sharp 
orders  rang  out  too  fast  for  me  to  catch.  Three 
soldiers  sprang  to  attention,  bayonets  fixed,  and 
took  position  behind  me.  The  officer  pointed 
towards  the  main  body  of  cavalry  and  ordered 
me   to   march. 

Off  I  went,  feeling  too  helpless  even  to  struggle. 
Somehow  it  all  seemed  so  ludicrous  for  a  harm- 
less, insignificant  person  like  myself  to  be  pushing 
a  suitcase  and  bicycle  over  a  stubble-field  with 
three  desperately  serious,  red-pantalooned,  long- 
bayoneted  French  soldiers  keeping  step  at  my 
heels.  Truly  it  was  absolute  opera-bouffe.  The 
comic  scenes  of  the  "Chocolate  Soldier"  rushed 
impulsively   to   my   mind. 


Prisoner  of  the  French  1 13 

There  was  no  time  to  think  what  to  say.  In 
only  a  few  seconds  we  arrived  at  the  main  body, 
which  stood  out  as  a  kaleidoscope  of  red  panta- 
loons and  nervous  horses  ready  to  be  mounted. 
I  was  ordered  to  drop  my  bicycle  and  proceed  to 
a  group  of  officers.  I  brought  up  before  a  kindly, 
wrinkled  little  man,  who  stood  out  as  the  com- 
mander, and  saluted  as  best  I  could.  My  three 
guards  close  at  my  heels  saluted  too,  and 
grounded  arms. 

"Bon  jour,  Monsieur,"  he  said  with  unexpected 
kindliness.     "Who    are    you?" 

"An  American." 

"What  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

"  I'm  a  war  correspondent." 

"Where  did  you  come  from  ?" 

"The  German  lines." 

The  commander's  eyes  opened  wide.  His  ex- 
pression set.  His  staff  gathered  in  a  close  circle 
about  me.  Impossible,  some  seemed  to  say ; 
spy,  seemed  the  verdict  of  others.  I  was  a  little 
dazed,  I  confess,  for  how  absurd  my  whole  story 
sounded  as  I  stammered  it  out  in  broken  French. 
And  how  odd  these  officers  looked,   kid  gloves, 


114     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

soft,  mauve  jackets,  gorgeous  red  trousers,  and 
dainty  caps.  Was  it  thus,  I  gasped,  that  the 
French  army  dressed  when  routed,  crushed, 
smashed  up  against  the  very  walls  of  Paris  ? 
A  dream  surely ;  soon  I  would  see  them  with 
beautiful  ladies  strolling  on  the  Champs 
d'Elysees ;  it  was  absurd  to  think  that  dust- 
grimed  German  hordes  were  just  a  few  miles  off. 

But  how  had  I  entered  the  German  lines,  they 
asked  ?  And  how  escaped  ?  A  German  pass  to 
Paris  ?  Mon  Dieu,  it  could  not  be.  But  look, 
here  it  is.  Could  one  believe  it  ?  And  the 
women  ?  Are  they  all  ravished  ?  And  Com- 
piegne,  burned  ?  And  where  are  "les  barbares" 
now  ?  And  isn't  it  true  that  they're  completely 
routed  ?  Do  you  think  they'll  fight  any  longer  ? 
I  could  not  begin  to  keep  pace  with  it  all.  Ques- 
tions popped  from  all  sides  on  all  subjects.  All 
the  discretion  that  was  possible  I  called  to  my  aid, 
for  I  could  see  that  every  word  was  being  weighed. 
I  clung  to  the  truth  like  a  drowning  man  to  a 
plank,  concealing  nothing,  exaggerating  nothing. 

No  atrocities  ?  Bah,  that  was  absurd.  Why 
everyone  —  and    the   barbarians    have   plenty   to 


Prisoner  of  the  French  115 

eat,  and  don't  have  to  drive  their  men  into  battle 
—  and  are  confident  of  victory  ?  The  atmosphere 
was  beginning  to  chill.  I  claimed  to  have  been 
with  the  Germans  all  this  time  and  could  say  such 
things  when  everyone  knew  —  certainly,  there 
must  be  something  wrong  somewhere.  I  was 
allowed  to  sit  down,  entirely  alone  and  avoided, 
hungry,  thirsty,  nervous,  with  horses  neighing 
near  by,  the  inscrutable  wood  that  might  even 
then  be  harboring  an  attack  just  ahead,  and  the 
rumble  of  battle  in  the  distance. 

Then  came  my  Nemesis,  a  dark-eyed,  English- 
speaking  officer,  who  gave  forth  distrust  and  sus- 
picion  in   every   movement. 

"You  come  from  the  German  lines?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

"And  you  have  a  German  pass  to  Paris?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

"And  no  French  papers  ?" 

"No,  Monsieur." 

"Well,  you  can't  convince  me,"  —  his  black 
eyes  became  slits,  his  lower  jaw  seemed  to  shoot 
forward,  he  chose  his  words,  —  "you  can't  con- 
vince me  that  you're  straight.     People  don't  ride 


n6     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

around  on  bicycles  between  the  lines  in  war- 
times just  for  fun." 

"No,  sir,  it  does  sound  foolish,  but  I  give  you 
my  word." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,  that  is  good  of  you." 
The  irony  froze  to  my  very  soul.  "Do  you  know 
that  this  is  war-times  ?" 

With  intense  fervor  I  replied  : 

"All  I  ask  —  is  —  that  —  you  —  do  —  noth- 
ing —  you  cannot  —  undo." 

His  ironical  gaze  had  now  become  almost  a 
leer.  His  eyes  bored  into  me  as  if  to  burn 
out  whatever  I  had  that  he  wanted.  With 
one  last  look  which  I  think  he  meant  to  be 
terrifying,  but  which  only  gave  me  an  angry 
revulsion,  he  walked  over  to  the  commander. 
For  some  minutes  he  talked,  while  both  glanced 
sideways  at  me. 

Well,  what's  the  use,  I  wondered  ?  My  fate 
lay  with  the  gods.  I  could  do  nothing  but  sit 
tight  and  hold  my  peace.  Besides  I  was  hot, 
tired,  and  hungry,  with  no  food  since  breakfast, 
and  small  use  to  ask  for  any.  I  wondered  vaguely 
what  the  battle  was  doing,  if  the  Germans  would 


Prisoner  of  the  French  117 

attack  through  the  woods,  if  Paris  was  really 
going  to  fall.  The  men  about  me  were  nervous ; 
horses  all  saddled  and  ready  to  mount  on  a  second's 
notice.  And  as  I  looked  vaguely  about,  I  en- 
countered two  black  eyes  glaring  at  me  across 
the  grass,  two  eyes  that  I  had  learned  to  fear  and 
to  hate  with  all  the  intensity  of  the  instinctive 
fight  for  self-preservation.  For  a  long  time  I 
wondered.  Why,  I  asked  myself,  had  that  man 
set  out  to  get  me  ?     What  glory  did  he  — 

"Wo  kommen-sie?"    snapped  into  my  ear. 

I  glanced  up  quickly  to  see  my  Nemesis  glar- 
ing down  on  me  from  behind.  By  the  gods, 
what  perversity  is  there  in  man  which  makes 
him  play  the  fool  when  he  most  wants  to  be 
serious  ?  It  amused  me,  amused  me  uncontrol- 
lably, that  he  should  have  struck  practically  the 
only  German  phrase  I  knew.  Some  absurd  im- 
pulse made  me  answer  slowly  and  deliberately : 

"Von  Senlis,  mein  Herr." 

It  was  enough.  Off  he  rushed  to  the  com- 
mander a  second  time,  saying : 

"I  spoke  to  that  man  in  German  and  he  an- 
swered in  German." 


n8     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

Oooh-la-la,  I  began  to  feel  I  was  being  carried 
over  the  falls. 

"Gettsen-sie  up,"  or  something  of  that  sort, 
and  I  got  up,  to  stand  an  agonizing  half-hour 
telling  a  German-speaking  officer  in  both  French 
and  English  that  I  could  not  understand  a  word 
he  said.  Never  was  the  ignorance  so  deeply  de- 
plored a  few  days  before  so  deeply  appreciated 
as  now.     Finally  in  disgust  he  asked  in  French : 

"But  why,  if  you  understand  no  German,  did 
you  get  up  when  I  told  you  in  German  to  do  so  ?" 

"Because,  Monsieur,"  I  replied,  "I  knew  you 
were  addressing  me  and  I  arose  instinctively 
from  politeness."  And  he  spent  another  ten 
minutes  endeavoring  in  every  way  to  trick  me 
into  speaking  German.  At  last  he  left  in  high 
disgust,  and  I  shall  never  have  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  whether  he  really  asked  me  for  a  match 
or  whether  I  imagined  it.  At  any  rate  I  did  not 
try  to  prove  my  German  by  offering  him  one. 

At  last  just  at  sunset  a  big  high-powered  auto- 
mobile drove  up  on  the  roadway  with  a  group  of 
high  officers.  I  was  ordered  to  my  feet,  and  once 
more,  with  three  bayoneted  soldiers  behind  me, 


Prisoner  of  the  French  119 

crossed  the  stubble-field.  This  time,  however,  I 
had  still  another  companion,  that  English-speak- 
ing officer  with  the  black  slit  eyes,  who  now 
stood  out  in  my  mind  for  nothing  so  much  as 
the  comic  section  "Smart  Alec." 

A  splendid  six-foot-two  officer  with  flowing 
white  plumes  falling  off  his  silver  helmet  stood 
just  in  front  of  his  staff  officers  at  the  edge  of 
the  road.  He  looked  me  up  and  down  as  I  saluted 
and  the  guards  grounded  arms,  rather  amused,  I 
thought. 

"Well,  what  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with 
you?"    he  asked  in  excellent  English. 

The  question  took  me  back  considerably,  for  I 
wasn't  quite  sure  myself. 

"I  —  I  —  don't  know,"  I  stammered  weakly. 
"I  —  I  guess  I'm  a  prisoner,"  and  I  pointed  to 
the  three  guards  behind.  He  smiled  —  but  the 
smile  soon  faded. 

"Who  are  you,"  etc.,  in  the  form  I  had  learned 
so  well,  followed  rapidly.  Everything  I  had 
omitted  my  "Smart  Alec"  friend  at  my  elbow 
supplied,  including  my  deep  knowledge  of  German. 

"Is  that  true?"    said  the  officer. 


120     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

I  told  him  the  facts,  and,  because  I  had  once 
seen  good-humor  in  his  face,  ventured  : 

"You  see,  it  struck  me  funny  that  he  hit  on 
almost  the  only  German  phrase  I  knew.  I  used 
to  go  to  Harvard  College,  and  I  almost  got  fired 
because  I  wouldn't  learn  German,  and  yet  this 
officer  made  me  understand  just  what  he  said." 

It  failed.  Not  even  the  suggestion  of  a  smile 
touched  his  face.  He  whispered  to  an  officer 
behind  him.  Off  I  was  led  to  a  big  Paris  auto- 
bus filled  with  dust-covered,  grimy  soldiers.  And 
as  I  got  in,  I  seemed  to  see  a  triumphant  leer  on 
the  face  of  my  Nemesis. 

Off  towards  the  sunset  we  travelled,  slowly, 
almost  mysteriously.  The  big  heavy  bus 
jounced  and  trundled  along  like  a  clumsy  ani- 
mal, seeming  almost  on  the  verge  of  voicing  a 
deep  protest  against  such  unwonted  work.  A 
cloud  of  dust  clung  about  it  like  a  shroud.  All 
of  us  were  choking,  while  the  blue  coats  of  the 
soldiers  about  me  were  streaked  with  white,  their 
faces  blanched,  and  their  eyelashes  standing  out 
as  if  heavily  powdered.  Once,  looking  through 
the  dust  towards  the  reddening  sky,  I  saw  just 


Prisoner  of  the  French  121 

beside  the  road  the  corpse  of  an  English  Tommie, 
lying  face  downward  and  with  arms  extended 
just  as  he  had  fallen.  He  might  have  been  a 
dog  for  all  anyone  cared  —  yet  I  could  not  help 
thinking  there  must  be  some  one  at  home  in  Eng- 
land who  would  long  wonder  what  had  become 
of  that  unnoticed  clay. 

I  was  left  entirely  to  my  own  thoughts  during 
that  ride,  and  you  may  well  believe  they  were  not 
at  all  cheerful.  At  every  step  my  predicament 
had  seemed  to  grow  more  serious,  and  the  parting 
look  of  my  white-plumed  officer  stayed  before 
me  as  an  ugly  memory.  Some  sort  of  trial, 
probably ;  establishment  of  identity  certainly ; 
perhaps  a  weary  imprisonment  while  they  com- 
pletely forgot  about  me ;  worse  than  that  I 
could  not  bring  myself  to  believe.  A  spy  ?  — 
but  that  could  not  be ;  I  knew  that  they  sus- 
pected it,  but  it  certainly  was  too  absurd. 

At  last,  in  the  semi-darkness,  we  trundled  into 
a  deserted  town  ;  no  lights,  no  people,  only  blank 
walls,  gaping  windows,  piles  of  straw,  filth,  and 
refuse.  From  every  window  of  our  bus  soldiers 
craned   forth   their   heads.     Horror,   indignation, 


122     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

imprecations  came  from  all  sides  as  the  work  of  the 
retreating  Germans  embedded  itself  in  their  minds. 

"Wait  till  we  get  to  Germany ;  wait  till  we  get 
to  Germany,"  one  of  them  beside  me  kept  repeat- 
ing like  a  dirge. 

It  was  Nanteuil,  one  told  me,  only  just  evacu- 
ated by  "les  barbares"  that  noon.  We  chunked 
our  way  up  the  rough  cobbles  of  a  bleak,  ghost- 
like street  to  the  main  square  and  there  groaned 
to  rest.  Two  blazing  camp  fires  in  the  middle 
of  the  square  flickered  a  confusion  of  wagons, 
horses,  and  men  into  an  aerie  shadow-scene  made 
all  the  more  weird  by  the  giant  walls  of  the 
Hotel  de  Ville  in  the  background.  Occasional 
shouting  of  orders  and  neighing  of  horses  made 
it  appear  even  gnome-like. 

All  the  soldiers  in  the  bus  tumbled  rapidly  out 
and  were  silently  swallowed  up  in  the  shadow  — 
all  but  one,  who  stayed  between  me  and  the  door. 
Shortly  he  proceeded  to  munch  down  a  rough 
meal  of  hard  bread  and  chocolate,  which  re- 
minded me  I  had  not  eaten  since  morning.  I 
tried  to  ingratiate  myself  by  offering  him  a 
cigarette,  but  alas,  he  was,   I   believe,   the  only 


Prisoner  of  the  French  123 

soldier  in  the  French  army  who  did  not  smoke. 
At  last  I  could  stand  it  no  longer  and  asked  him 
if  I  were  to  get  anything  to  eat.  Unfortunately 
all  he  had  left  was  a  small  hunk  of  hard  bread 
which  he  generously  shared  with  me. 

For  two  whole  hours  we  sat  in  that  horrible 
bus,  apparently  forgotten,  while  my  guard  dis- 
cussed laconically  the  improbability  of  my  being 
shot.  Then,  when  it  seemed  I  would  go  crazy, 
a  young  English-speaking  officer  came  out  of 
the  shadow,  looked  me  up  and  down,  and  took 
out  his  revolver. 

"You  will  not  try  to  escape,"  he  said.  "March 
to  the  City  Hall." 

I  marched.  Next  came  the  revolver  almost 
in  the  small  of  my  back.  Then  the  officer, 
distant  and  uncommunicative.  Over  rough 
ground  we  went,  through  a  medley  of  wagons, 
horses,  and  men,  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  I  felt  as 
though  I  were  walking  on  eggs  and  prayed  ardently 
that  my  guard  would  not  stub  his  toe. 

My  pistolated  friend  took  me  to  a  small  hall- 
way, where  straw  had  been  piled  about  ankle- 
deep.     He    gave    me    into    the    custody   of   four 


124     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

guards,  who  promptly  ordered  me  to  lie  down  in 
the  further  corner.  Fortunately  I  was  able 
when  no  one  was  looking  to  snatch  up  another 
hunk  of  hard  bread  from  the  straw,  and  then  as 
no  one  seemed  to  bother  about  me  I  tried  to  for- 
get things  in  sleep. 

To  say  I  slept,  however,  would  be  a  travesty. 
An  incessant  stream  of  men  passed  in  and  out 
of  the  building,  shouting  with  true  French  excit- 
ability and  running  up  and  down  stairs  with  flash- 
ing lanterns.  I  wondered  if  the  French  army  ever 
slept.  Soon  an  odoriferous  soldier,  who  I  wager 
had  not  taken  a  bath  since  the  war  began,  pressed 
close  against  me  on  one  side  and  another  placed 
himself  at  my  feet,  so  I  could  not  stretch  out. 
At  last,  nevertheless,  midst  all  the  furore,  I  fell 
into  a  state  of  cold  and  sickly  insensibility. 

Eternities  seemed  to  have  spun  themselves 
away  through  a  nauseating  vacuity  when 
suddenly  without  warning  a  gruff  hand  seized 
my  shoulder  and  I  was  dragged  dizzily  forth  to 
the  stairway,  still  covered  with  straw.  There 
my  magnificent  white-plumed  officer  of  the  after- 
noon, with  the  aid  of  a  light  from  a  large  greasy 


Prisoner  of  the  French  125 

lantern,  was  making  a  most  minute  examina- 
tion of  my  precious  suit-case.  Rummaging  into 
everything,  he  came  upon  the  shirt  which  my 
two  German  bicycle  scouts  had  stolen  for  me  at 
our  mansion  at  Senlis.  Every  fibre  of  it  seemed 
to  breathe  forth  its  message,  to  make  it  stand 
out  as  a  great  red,  accusing  finger,  pointing 
defiantly  at  me.  But  somehow  the  officer  passed 
it  over.  Then  he  came  on  a  big  volume  of  Hugo's 
"Les  Miserables"  which  I  had  deliberately 
stolen  from  a  looted  chateau. 

"Seems  to  me,"  he  said  (would  he  strike  the 
name-plate),  "seems  to  me  that's  a  funny  thing 
to  go  to  war  with." 

"Yes,"  I  faltered  hastily,  "but  Hugo's  my 
favorite  writer  and  I  took  it  along  to  —  to  read 
evenings." 

'  "Huh,"  and  he  shook  his  head,  as  though  I 
were  mentally  unsound.  Anything  was  better 
than  being  thought  a  spy ;  hence  I  kept  a  dis- 
creet silence.  Like  the  labor  of  a  mighty  moun- 
tain which  brought  forth  only  a  tiny  mole,  this 
exacting  examination  produced  nothing  more 
portentous   than   my  diary,  which,  however,  for 


126     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

all  the  fuss  they  made  about  it,  might  have  been 
of  fatal  menace  to  the  Republic.  With  that  re- 
moved for  further  inspection,  and  my  person 
pushed  and  prodded  for  arms  or  secret  papers,  I 
was  dismissed  once  more  to  my  bed  of  straw  and 
dirty  French  soldiers.  To  my  dismay  my  watch 
told  me  it  was  only  12.30. 

Another  eternity  afterwards  I  was  yanked  out 
of  the  straw  once  more  and  shoved,  sick  and  dizzy, 
towards  the  door.  It  was  cold  and  bleak  out- 
doors with  a  damp  dew  all  about.  Two  guards, 
revolvers  unstrapped,  stood  menacingly  beside 
me.  Vaguely  I  realized  that  it  was  the  proverbial 
hour  for  the  firing  squad.  But  what  mattered 
it  ?  Without  water  and  almost  without  food  for 
twenty-four  hours,  with  little  sleep  and  nerves 
strung  taut,  I  felt  too  sick  to  care. 

My  guards,  revolvers  ready,  led  me  out  into 
the  blackness.  The  shouting  of  men  and  the 
harnessing  of  horses  indicated  that  a  general 
movement  was  under  way.  Bleak  and  lonely  as 
I  felt  in  the  grip  of  this  great  force,  it  was  a  com- 
fort to  know  that  there  were  others  besides  my- 
self who   were   stirring.     I   was   now   not   at   all 


Prisoner  of  the  French  127 

sorry  not  to  be  the  leading  actor.  My  guards 
ordered  me  on  to  an  empty  wagon  pulling  out  into 
the  roadway  and  followed  close  behind.  We 
went  on  and  on  in  the  darkness,  wagons  in  front, 
wagons  behind,  but  most  fascinating  of  all,  two 
corpses  covered  with  blankets  on  the  wagon  with 
us.  I  don't  know  how  long  I  philosophized  on 
this  evidence  of  the  ruthlessness  of  war,  how  much 
soul-stirring  I  indulged  in,  when  suddenly  one 
rose  on  his  elbow,  yawned,  and  shook  the  other 
into  action. 

For  a  while  I  was  allowed  to  ride,  but  soon  that 
appeared  too  good  for  a  prisoner  and  I  was  made 
to  march.  On  and  on  we  went  out  into  the 
country,  through  the  darkness,  through  the  dawn, 
through  the  sunrise  to  a  glorious  day.  The  first 
flush  of  dawn  showed  to  my  eyes  a  huge  supply 
train  of  busses  and  wagons,  nearly  two  miles  long ; 
and  to  our  ears  it  brought  the  sullen  roar  of  the 
beginning  of  another  day  of  the  slaughter  along 
the  Marne. 

I  was  tired,  fearfully  tired,  and  weak  from  lack 
of  food  and  sleep.  There  was  no  stopping,  how- 
ever,  for  the    long    caravan   wound    implacably 


128     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

on  through  the  dust.  It  had  been  a  beautiful 
country  we  were  passing  through,  but  now  it  was 
only  a  succession  of  rotting  harvests  and  hun- 
dreds of  little  peasant  homes  deserted  and  rifled. 
Like  the  fateful  sweep  of  Time  we  passed  Er- 
menonville,  where  only  the  day  before  I  had,  a 
free  man,  fled  from  German  Uhlans  to  enter  the 
French  lines.     What  a  refuge  indeed ! 

I  sought  relief  by  wetting  my  mouth  with  the  acid 
juice  of  unripe  pears  along  the  roadside.  It  had 
long  seemed  as  if  I  could  go  no  farther  when  our 
big  supply  train  drew  itself  up  in  giant  circles  in 
a  big  meadow  and  horse  and  man  sought  rest. 
As  the  sun  mounted  it  became  sickeningly  hot, 
especially  as  my  guard  would  not  let  me  move 
far  enough  to  find  shade.  All  morning  the  roar  of 
the  big  guns  continued,  while  we  poised  vulture- 
like for  the  outcome.  But  to  me  it  mattered  not 
that  even  at  that  moment  Paris  might  be  falling, 
that  I  had  come  all  the  way  to  Europe  only  to  be 
near  but  not  at  the  decision  of  world  history. 
Rumble,  rumble,  rumble,  what  did  I  care  ? 

Just  before  noon  it  ceased.  Perfect  stillness 
followed.     Great     God,     what     had     happened  ? 


Prisoner  of  the  French  129 

The  sun  had  grown  hotter  and  hotter,  as  if  to 
melt  the  earth  into  quiet.  Men  looked  at  each 
other  poignantly.  The  possibility  of  the  annihi- 
lation of  France  seemed  to  echo  through  that 
false  peace.  The  laying  low  of  the  country  I 
loved  so  well  came  home  to  me  with  sickening 
anguish.  The  hours  passed  silently ;  not  a 
sound  disturbed  the  unusual  noon  peace  till  two 
o'clock. 

Then,  God  be  praised,  the  guns  resumed, 
France  still  lived  ;  still  fought !  But  hold  —  can 
it  be  —  no  —  it  is  too  much  —  but  yet  —  by 
Heaven  above  —  France  not  only  fought ;  she 
was  winning.  The  Germans  were  hurled  back, 
back,  back;  the  French  recoil  had  begun,  the 
tiger  had  sprung.  A  shout  of  joy  burst  out 
around  me ;  a  quiver  of  jubilation  ran  through 
the  convoy ;  faces  which  had  been  sad  and  drawn 
lit  up  with  ecstasy  as  if  charged  with  electricity. 
Ah,  to  have  seen  this  day ! 


K 


VI 

UHLANS  AND  TAUBES 

The  roar  of  guns  which  all  morning  had  been 
near  was  now  far  off.  The  French  had 
hammered,  pounded  the  Germans  into  serious 
retreat.  Paris  might  yet  be  saved.  The  long 
trail  of  disaster  I  had  followed  from  Belgium 
almost  to  the  gates  of  Paris  had  snapped  back. 
Ah,  it  seemed  I  must  fling  my  heels  in  the  air 
and  shout  for  pure  joy  —  till  I  caught  the  severe 
eye  of  my  guard  resting  on  me.  Obviously 
jubilation  from  me  would  appear  wholly  simu- 
lated, hence  I  choked  down  my  enthusiasm. 
What  a  shame  that  in  this  world  victory  there 
must  be  a  string  tied  to  my  happiness  ! 

Activity  burst  forth  on  all  sides,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  we  were  on  our  way  back  to  Nanteuil. 
Alas,  that  I  knew  the  distance,  for  it  certainly 
did  seem  I  could  not  go  another  eight  miles  in 
that  blazing  sun.     Fortunately  I  had  made  up  my 

130 


Uhlans  and  Taubes  131 

mind  that  I  would  not  starve  and  had  demanded 
bread  and  water  from  my  guard.  It  seemed  as 
though  I  could  swallow  canteen  and  all. 

After  endless  plodding  through  the  dust  my 
guard  told  me  that  two  Englishmen  were  ap- 
proaching. In  my  hapless  condition  I  fairly 
wanted  to  dash  up  and  kiss  them  —  till  I  saw 
them.  I  gazed  eagerly  back  to  see  two  huge 
men  fully  six  feet  two,  with  big  white  towels 
wrapped  over  their  heads  and  under  their  chins, 
a  six  weeks'  growth  of  ruddy  beard,  women's 
chemises  which  left  bare  a  big  expanse  of  shaggy 
chest,  trousers  which  stopped  halfway  to  the 
knee,  and  shoes  too  small  to  fasten.  They  were 
just  dismounting  awkwardly  from  what  appeared 
to  be  children's  bicycles  and  were  stalking  off 
down  the  road  towards  me.  For  all  the  world 
they  might  have  been  the  original  cave  men  from 
the  Stone  Age.     With  trepidation  I  asked  : 

"Do  you  speak  English?" 

"Well,  where  th'  divil  did  you  come  from?" 
exclaimed  one,  in  richest  Irish. 

"Where  the  devil  did  You  come  from?"  I 
retorted. 


132     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

"  Shure,  we've  ben  afther  runnin'  al  iver  the 
bloody  counthry.  We  wuz  one  of  the  first  to 
come  out  from  the  old  counthry  and  we've  ben 
runnin'  ever  since.  Them  bloody  Dutchers  blew 
the  hill  out  of  us  about  thray  wakes  ago  up 
Belgium  way  and  haven't  given  us  a  lit-up  since. 
It  was   about  a  wake  ago  over  here  somewhere 

—  damn  if  I  know  where  —  only  there  wuz  an 
open  corn  falde  and  a  town  with  a  white  church 

—  and  the  bloody  Dutchers  caught  us  at  both 
inds  with  their  damn  machine-guns.  We  wuz 
going  down  like  flies  all  around.  Mike  here  wuz 
beside  me  with  his  teeth  nearly  rattlin'  out  of 
his  head,  and  I  sez : 

"'Mike,'  sez  I,  'phwat  th'  divil  ar  yez  doin' 
here?' 

"'Damn  if  I  know,'  sez  Mike. 

"'Well,'  sez  I,  'phwat  do  yez  say  we  bate  it?' 

"'Right,'  sez  Mike. 

"So  we  sent  our  guns  in  one  direction,  our  hats 
and  coats  in  anither,  and  oursilves  in  a  third  as 
though  hell  itself  wuz  afther  us.  And  by  God, 
all  the  rist  of  them  bate  it  too.  Bullets  wuz 
flyin'  under  my  arms,  betwane  my  legs,  and  all 


Uhlans  and  Taubes  133 

around  me.  Men  wuz  goin'  down  al  over  the 
place.  I  felt  like  I  wuz  the  size  of  a  house  and 
damn  if  I  don't  belave  those  bloody  Dutchers 
wuz  pullin'  the  wood  away  from  us. 

"Damn  if  I  know  how  I  did  it,  but  somehow  I 
got  into  that  wood  alive.  Pretty  soon  up  comes 
Mike. 

"'Well,'     sez     I,     'phwat    the    hill    are    you 

doin'?' 

'"I'm  runnin','  sez  Mike.  'Phwat  th'  hill  did 
yez  think  I  wuz  doin'  ?' 

"And  no  sooner  had  Mike  cum  up  than  up 
cum  the  Dutchers.  They  takes  us  in  tow  over 
to  a  house  and  makes  signs  to  us  like  this.  We 
took  off  al  our  clothes  that  was  dacent,  and 
then  stopped,  but  they  made  us  go  the  limit. 
Pritty  soon  we  wuz  as  naked  as  whin  we  wuz 
barne. 

"'Phwat  yez  doin'?'  sez  I  to  Mike.  'Havin' 
yer  picture  took?' 

"'Shut  up,'  sez  Mike.  'Yer  ain't  no  beauty 
yerself . ' 

"Pretty  soon  they  run  us  into  the  house  and 
here's  the  rig  they  give  us.     Well,  we  bate  the 


134     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

woods  thray  days  with  them  till  one  night  Mike 
sez  to  me  : 

'"I'm  gettin'  sick  of  these  guys.     Let's  bate  it.' 

"'AP  right,'  sez  I,  and  we  did.  We  waited  till 
it  wuz  dark  and  then  we  sneaked  away.  And 
for  thray  days  we  wandered  around  livin'  on 
roots  till  we  sees  these  guys. 

"'Mike,'  sez  I,  'who  th'  hill  are  thim?' 

"'Damn  if  I  know,'  sez  Mike,  'but  I'm  sick  of 
livin'  on  roots.  I'd  rather  go  back  to  fried  dogs 
and  sauerkraut  with  the  Dutcherc  than  wander 
around  here  any  more.'" 

It  was  a  long  speech  for  the  Irishman,  and  he 
stopped  suddenly.     Abruptly  he  asked  : 

"Who  th'  hill  are  these  guys  ?" 

"Why,"  I  stammered,  "they're  soldiers, 
French  soldiers." 

"Well,  I'm  damned,"  he  mused.  "Here  I've 
been  fightin'  in  their  bloody  counthry  now  for 
thray  wakes,  and  them's  the  first  Frenchies  I've 
sane  yet.  They're  a  hill  of  a  lookin'  bunch, 
they  are. 

"Mike,  Mike,"  he  burst  out.  "  Would  yez  look 
at  the  pants    they've   got   on  ?     Damn  if    I   see 


Uhlans  and  Taubes  135 

how  they  can  run  so  fast  with  thim  trimmings. 
I  belave  I  could  bate  up  a  whole  rigiment  of  them 
myself." 

Fortunately  for  international  comity  the  wide- 
eyed  Frenchmen  who  were  standing  about,  gaz- 
ing wonderingly  at  the  Irishmen's  physiques  and 
their  methods  of  covering  them,  understood 
neither  English  nor  Irish.  Then  one  of  them, 
with  mouth  crammed  with  sardines,  sweet  choco- 
late, and  pears,  learned  I  was  a  prisoner. 

"Phwat  are  yez  talkin'  about?  Phwat  are 
yez,  an  Englishman?" 

"No,  an  American." 

"Well,  damn  me,  it's  the  same  thing.  Who's 
got  yer  ?" 

I  pointed  to  my  little  guard.  The  big  Irish- 
man stalked  over,  brandished  a  huge  fist  in  his 
face,  and  let  forth  a  volley  which  nearly  sent  me 
prostrate  with  laughter. 

"Who  th'  hill  do  yez  think  yer  are,  anyway? 
I've  got  a  good  mind  to  knock  yer  block  off,  yer 
good-for-nothing,  insignificant  little  Frenchie. 
That  guy's  a  frind  of  mine,  and  he's  worth  about 
six  of  you." 


136     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

And  so  forth  with  much  anger.  The  Irish- 
man put  just  as  much  fervor  into  his  words  as 
though  the  Frenchman  had  understood  every 
syllable,  and  the  latter  seemed  perplexed  as  to 
whether  to  laugh  or  run.  At  last  I  got  myself 
together  sufficiently  to  call  the  Irishman  off  and 
tell  him  it  was  not  the  guard,  but  rather  an 
officer  who  was  responsible. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "show  me  the  officer.  I'll 
bate  up  the  whole  damn  regiment  if  I  have  to." 
But  fortunately  more  food  arrived  at  that  mo- 
ment and  further  hostilities  were  prevented. 

Finally,  in  the  late  afternoon  we  arrived  once 
more  at  Nanteuil.  For  nearly  an  hour  we  halted 
in  the  city  streets,  with  the  tail  of  our  column, 
where  were  the  two  Irishmen,  thirty-four  German 
prisoners,  and  myself  at  the  very  outskirts.  It 
was  the  most  dangerous  place  of  all  in  case  of 
attack,  and  I  had  wondered  not  a  little  why  we 
had  all  been  put  there. 

Crash  !  A  rifle  volley  broke  out  —  bang,  bang, 
bang,  just  beside  us. 

"Aux  Armes,"  rang  down  the  line  —  Uhlans 
were  upon  us  —  rifles  spat  and  sputtered  on  all 


Uhlans  and  Taubes  137 

sides  —  the  German  prisoners  twitched  with  ner- 
vousness —  officers  with  drawn  revolvers  herded 
them  menacingly  into  a  side-yard  —  even  my 
little  guard  caught  the  fever  and  drove  me  inside, 
too.  Men  with  guns  clutched  firmly  rushed  past 
our  gateway,  each  for  himself.  There  was  no  cen- 
tral command,  no  unity  of  action.  Men  jumped 
behind  trees  and  tried  sharp  shooting,  much  as  I 
imagine  was  the  case  in  old  American  days  when 
a  prairie  schooner  was  attacked  by  Indians. 

"Well,  I'm  damned  if  we  can  iver  git  rid  of 
thim,"  said  one  of  the  Irishmen,  and  he  imme- 
diately forgot  the  battle  outside  in  a  large  sand- 
wich. What,  I  wondered,  would  happen  if  the 
Germans  rushed  down  the  street  we  were  on  ? 

The  panic  spread  even  to  my  guard.  I  had 
noticed  him  getting  more  and  more  fidgety,  and 
at  last  he  could  stand  it  no  longer.  Taking  out 
his  revolver,  he  ordered  me  out  of  the  yard,  on  to 
the  street,  into  the  range  of  the  flying  bullets, 
and,  if  you  will  believe  it,  towards  the  front. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  intelligence,  he  or- 
dered me  into  a  yard  exactly  like  the  one  I  had 
left  except  that  I  was  much  nearer  the  German 


138     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

attackers.  I  guess  he  must  have  appreciated  that 
I  came  over  to  see  the  war. 

"Phwat  th'  hill  have  yez  been  up  to?"  I 
heard  shortly,  and  there  in  the  doorway  were 
the  two  Irishmen.  Stirred  to  action  by  my 
sudden  departure,  they  were  torn  between  desire 
to  "git  a  gun  and  bate  them  up"  or  to  get  some 
water  to  wash  down  a  heavy  meal.  But  as  my 
guard's  enthusiasm  had  now  lapsed  into  quietude, 
we  sat  in  the  shelter  of  a  wall  for  a  long  time, 
while  the  firing  gradually  withered  away  into  a 
few  last  scattering  shots  and  silence.  What, 
apart  from  the  furore,  was  the  net  result  I  do  not 
know,  but  I  do  know  that  an  invaluable  convoy 
was  caught  entirely  unawares,  with  no  central 
defence,  with  prisoners  in  the  most  exposed 
position,  and  probably  with  no  sentries. 

Then  as  suddenly  as  the  furore  had  come  and 
gone  came  the  next  act.  An  officer  dashed 
breathlessly  up  to  me  and  shouted  in  my  face  : 

"There's  a  train  waiting  —  hurry  up  —  get 
out  of  here." 

"But  how  —  what  do  you  mean?"  I 
stammered. 


Uhlans  and  Taubes  139 

"You're  free  —  free  —  in  full  liberty  —  go  — 
leave  at  once  —  you're  free." 

He  seemed  wild  with  impatience. 

"But,"  I  stammered  again,  "what  do  you 
mean?     I'm  no  longer  a  spy?" 

"No,  no,  they've  decided  you're  not.  Hurry; 
get  away ;  go  to  Paris.  The  Colonel  orders 
it." 

They  now  seemed  as  eager  to  get  rid  of  me  as 
before  they  had  been  to  keep  me. 

"But,"  I  asked,  "you've  got  my  bicycle,  my 
suit  case,  everything  I  own." 

"Yes,  yes,  where  are  they?  What  have  we 
done  with  them  ?" 

My  two  Irish  friends  said  good-by  —  off  to 
Paris. 

"How  do  I  know,"  I  exclaimed,  "when  you've 
had  this  lad  running  around  behind  me  for  two 
days  with  a  loaded  revolver?" 

He  seemed  greatly  nettled  at  me  for  not  know- 
ing.    A  wild  but  unavailing  search  ensued. 

"There's  no  more  time,"  he  said.  "Your 
train's  leaving.  What  will  you  do,  come  with  us 
or  get  them  after  the  war  ?"  . 


140     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 


"  T'l 


I'll  come,"  I  replied.  Heaven  knew  where 
they  were  going.  "But  wait  a  minute,  if  you 
please,"  I  shouted  after  him.  "Kindly  have  this 
man  put  up  that  pistol  and  tell  him  that  I'm  not 
going  to  destroy  France,  and  give  me  over  to 
someone  who  knows  I'm  not  a  spy." 

Instantly  the  attitude  towards  me  changed. 
Soldiers  crowded  about  me  with  true  French 
cordiality.  Even  my  former  guard  relaxed  in  om- 
inousness.  I  was  given  over  to  a  very  courteous 
little  soldier  who  at  once  felt  a  very  warm  spot 
towards  me  because  I  could  tell  him  all  about  the 
German  signs  and  dishes  in  the  restaurant  at  Val- 
enciennes where  he  had  previously  been  a  waiter. 

In  inky  blackness  we  went  out  the  other  side 
of  Nanteuil  towards  the  firing  line.  Incessantly 
wounded  streamed  by,  some  hobbling,  some  rid- 
ing, still  others  groaning  almost  in  death  as  they 
were  joggled  along  on  stretchers.  Once  we 
stopped  on  an  inky  black  mountain  road  to  allow 
a  train  of  artillery  to  pass  and  dig  itself  in  on  a 
near-by  knoll.  Like  gnomes  of  the  underworld, 
dim  figures  toiled  in  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
neighing  of  a  horse  or  a  sharp  command. 


Uhlans  and  Taubes  141 

By  now  I  had  become  an  honored  guest.  My 
friends  insisted  that  I  have  the  seat  on  the  rear 
of  an  ammunition  wagon,  which  courtesy  alone 
forced  me  to  accept.  It  extended  only  six  inches 
from  the  back  of  the  wagon,  so  that  I  had  to 
plaster  my  back  absolutely  flat  against  the  rear. 
A  bar  below  gave  a  little  purchase  for  my  toes ;  a 
strap  at  the  side  gave  something  for  one  hand  to 
cling  to.  Slowly  we  jounced  and  joggled  along 
in  the  blackness  of  a  wooded  road  till  it  seemed 
as  if  my  teeth  would  rattle  out  of  my  head. 
Every  now  and  then  we  brought  up  so  sharply 
that  the  big  cavalry  horses  behind  me  nearly 
pinned  me  to  the  wagon. 

Just  before  midnight  we  arrived  at  a  fine  open 
field  under  a  clear  moon-lit  sky.  Wagons  were 
herded  together,  horses  unharnessed,  and  a  line 
of  guards  set  about  us.  Four  German  soldiers 
who  had  been  playing  the  devil  in  an  armored 
car  were  brought  in  amid  much  excitement.  My 
kind  friend  set  out  to  get  a  blanket  and  returned 
in  great  joy,  for  it  appeared  that  blankets  were 
indeed  a  luxury.  There  were  three  of  us  under 
that  one  and  one  of  them  hardly  closed  his  eyes 


142     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

all  night.  Our  bed  was  a  stinging  stubble-field ; 
spiders  crawled  over  our  faces  like  an  army 
corps  ;  field  bugs  reconnoitred  our  legs  beyond  the 
point  of  endurance.  As  the  night  lengthened  a 
cold  damp  dew  set  in  which  made  it  necessary 
to  smother  our  heads  in  the  blankets  while  our 
feet  stuck  out  below  in  the  dampness.  A  French 
civilian  on  one  side  of  me  snored  like  a  pig  and 
sucked  in  the  blanket ;  my  soldier  friend  on  the 
other  side  snorted  spasmodically.  At  last,  at  last, 
the  torture  ended.  All  of  us  rose  gladly  in  a  cold 
dawn  to  stir  life  into  our  deadened  arteries.  And 
as  we  watched  the  sun  climb  up  and  the  camp 
fires  kindle,  I'll  never  forget  how  every  man  in 
that  great  camp  coughed  with  a  deep  chest  cold. 
There  was  nothing  hot  for  breakfast,  only  the 
same  old  hard  bread  and  a  little  jam. 

Midst  all  the  bustle  of  awakening  life  and 
breaking  camp,  a  speck  appeared  on  the  horizon, 
a  tiny  speck  which  grew  larger,  larger,  as  it  ap- 
proached, till  we  saw  a  beautiful  hawk-like  Taube 
circling  menacingly  about  over  our  heads  as  if 
ready  to  dive  at  us  at  any  second.  Instantly 
the  whole  camp  sprang  to  arms  and  a  thousand 


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"  Self-styled  journalist  "  is  freed  to  go  to  Paris  after  having 
bicycled  across  the  lines. 


Uhlans  and  Taubes  143 

guns  spat  forth  a  caustic  good  morning.  For  a 
considerable  time  the  Taube  circled  disdainfully 
about,  and  then  fully  satisfied,  sailed  majestically 
off  into  the  distance.  For  a  long  time  the  French 
watched  eagerly  for  it  to  pitch  downwards,  but 
at  last  had  to  return  disappointed  to  their  routine 
work. ' 

By  now  my  good  friend  had  located  my  suit- 
case, but  my  diary  was  vehemently  denied  me. 
Strangely  enough  the  big  white-plumed  officer 
who  had  bobbed  up  several  times  before  appeared 
once  again  and  only  too  kindly  gave  me  a  pass  to 
Paris.  My  diary  ?  Of  course,  he  replied,  and  at 
once  ordered  its  custodian,  whom  I  had  been  able 
to  move  by  no  entreaties,  to  give  it  over  to  me. 

"And,  Monsieur,"  I  faltered,  "when  I  came  I 
had  the  best  bicycle  in  France.  If  it's  been 
commandeered,  it  will  be  my  contribution  to  the 
Allies ;  if  not,  well,  it  would  shorten  the  walk  to 
Paris." 

"All  right,"  he  replied,  rather  knowingly,  I 
thought,  "if  you  can  locate  it,  take  it." 

A  half-hour's  search  of  a  thousand  bicycles 
showed  nothing  of  mine.     I  reported  to  him. 


144    Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

"Well,  it's  gone  —  here's  hoping  it's  useful. 
Good-by,  and  — " 

"Wait  a  minute,  I'll  get  you  another." 

"Oh,  no,  Monsieur,"  I  started,  but  my  friend 
whispered : 

"Don't  worry,  if  they  give  you  anything,  it's 
no  good." 

He  was  right.  It  looked  perfectly  good  as  I 
jumped  on  and  waved  good-by,  once  more  a 
free  man.  But  inside  ioo  yards  the  front  tire 
went  flat ;  in  another  hundred  yards  the  back 
tire  followed  suit.     Then  I  walked. 

Once  more  at  Nanteuil,  I  found  by  good  for- 
tune that  a  train  of  wounded  was  just  setting  out 
for  Paris.  There  for  the  first  time  I  found  what  a 
phenomenon  my  trip  with  the  Germans  made  me. 
Indeed  it  earned  for  me  my  first  real  meal  in  three 
days,  real  bread,  a  raw  egg,  and  above  all  wine. 

It  was  a  ghastly  trip,  that  to  Paris.  At  every 
station  we  stopped  for  wounded,  till  our  long 
train  was  fairly  groaning  with  maimed  and  dying. 
Men  had  been  brought  in  from  the  near-by  lines, 
sometimes  two,  three,  even  four  days  without 
attention,    dumped    on    the    platforms    and    left 


Uhlans  and  Taubes  145 

unattended  till  a  chance  train  came  along.  The 
baggage-men  and  myself  were  the  only  ones  to 
load  this  human  wreckage  on  board,  and  the 
worst  we  took  in  with  us. 

One  of  them  I  talked  with  a  long  time,  a  simple, 
kindly  little  school  teacher  from  Southern  France, 
whose  eyes  burned  feverishly,  and  whose  left 
leg  had  been  smashed  by  a  shell  and  made  three 
inches  shorter  than  the  other.  Great  God,  the 
agony  of  moving  that  racked  form,  and  yet  apart 
from  the  deepening  of  the  red  spots  on  his  cheeks, 
his  only  thought  seemed  of  the  children  he  had 
been  forced  to  leave. 

"Ah,  Monsieur,  what  will  they  do  without 
me?     Who  will  see  to  them  now?" 

Another  had  lain  for  three  days  between  the 
lines,  without  food,  without  attendance.  Now 
he  bore  a  large  red-stained  towel  wrapped  all 
about  his  head,  his  one  uncovered  eye  gazing 
blankly  out  of  the  door.  When  I  asked  him  if 
he  wanted  more  water,  he  made  no  reply,  even  his 
power  of  hearing  seeming  stunned.  A  third  had 
had  his  arm  and  shoulder  smashed  out  of  shape 
and  lay  deathly  still,  only  a  faint  groan  showing 


146    Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

that  life  still  remained.  And  so  on  through 
countless  others. 

Our  train  with  its  freight  of  suffering  hitched 
slowly,  slowly  on  like  a  funeral  procession.  Its 
every  bump  and  jounce  sent  agonies  of  pain 
through  the  torn  forms  near  us,  and  it  seemed 
eternities  ere  we  reached  the  suburbs  of  the 
capital.  At  one  of  them  my  train  of  wounded 
switched  off  to  the  east  of  Paris  for  the  South  of 
France,  while  I  descended  to  the  platform  to 
take  another  train. 

It  was  the  shock  of  coming  into  another  world. 
In  a  second,  I  had  been  transported  from  where 
humanity  was  locked  with  its  very  elements, 
where  men  discarded  civilization  for  barbarity, 
where  blood  ran  thick,  where  forms  lay  torn 
and  mangled,  straight  to  that  city  which  typified 
the  height  of  civilization,  which  stands  as  a 
monument  to  man's  highest  impulses.  I  looked 
back  to  the  scenes  I  had  left,  then  forward  to 
Paris'  sky-line.  Surely  both  could  not  be ;  they 
could  not  thus  exist  so  closely  side  by  side.  One 
of  them  must  be  a  mere  dream,  a  figment  of 
the  imagination. 


Uhlans  and  Taubes  147 

And  the  quiet  life  on  the  platform  about  me ; 
people  well  dressed ;  women  with  flowers ;  all 
the  little  petty  human  activities  going  on  as 
usual ;  —  Great  God,  how  could  it  be  ?  And  the 
Germans  so  near  (it  had  been  but  a  trifling  train- 
ride)  ;  France  so  close  to  annihilation.  Oh,  why 
didn't  everyone  get  out  and  make  ready  ?  I 
could  not  but  look  askance  at  these  people ;  did 
they  not  know  ?  and  they  too  looked  askance  at 
me. 


VII 

A  REPORT  TO  THE  STATE 
DEPARTMENT 

Paris,  Paris  at  last !     Ah,  did  she  but  realize  ! 

I  blundered  over  to  the  United  Press,  then  to 
the  Embassy. 

"Mr.  Herrick  ?  Why,  he's  very  busy;  he's 
the  busiest  man  in  Europe.  May  I  ask  who 
you  are  ?" 

"I  do  not  care  especially  to  see  Mr.  Herrick," 
I  answered  very  wearily,  but  with  all  the  dignity 
I  could  muster  ;  "I  only  thought  the  Ambassador 
might  wish  to  see  me.  You  may  say  there  is  an 
American  newspaperman  here  just  back  from  the 
German  lines." 

A  startled  look,  a  moment's  wait,  and  the 
doors  stood  wide  open.  Exhausted,  dishevelled, 
unshaven,  dirty,  received  first  as  a  tramp,  then  as 
a  ghost,  I  entered  a  beautiful  room  with  the  for- 
mally dressed  Ambassador  standing  questioningly 

148 


A  Report  to  the  State  Department      149 

at  his  desk  in  the  centre  and  richly  uniformed 
aids  and  attaches  seated  wonderingly  near  by. 

I  am  going  to  digress  here  a  moment  to  repeat 
what  I  told  Ambassador  Herrick  and  later  re- 
ported to  the  State  Department,  not  with  any 
idea  of  historical  completeness  or  infallibility, 
but  merely  as  the  observations  of,  so  far  as  I 
know,  the  only  American  newspaperman  en  von 
Kluck's  dash  to  Paris.  Remember  that  I  was 
with  the  Germans  for  nearly  three  weeks  during 
the  heat  of  their  advance  ;  on  the  main  line  all  the 
time  from  the  Belgian  border  to  Paris ;  and  that 
throughout  I  had  been  intensely  anti-German. 

First,  let  me  say,  I  saw  nothing  that  could 
remotely  be  classified  as  atrocities,  with  two 
possible  exceptions.  The  first  was  the  abuse 
of  the  thin,  chicken-chested  woman  at  St.  Quen- 
tin,  whose  husband  had  been  held  against  the 
wall  by  one  drunken  German  while  the  other 
wreaked  his  will  on  the  defenceless  wife.  The 
story  was  too  honestly  told  to  be  false,  but  I 
have  no  reason  for  believing  that  it  was  general. 
From  the  fact  that  women  in  towns  where  the 
Germans  had  been  for  any  time  seemed  to  have 


150     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

overcome  their  fear,  I  firmly  believe  that  the 
Germans  were  as  respectful  as  any  army  would 
have  been. 

The  other  possible  atrocity  was  the  city  of  Senlis, 
where  the  mayor  and  sixteen  councilmen  had  been 
shot  and  fire  set  to  the  station,  several  hotels, 
and  all  the  houses  on  the  Rue  de  la  Republique 
and  two  side-streets.  The  Germans  told  me, 
even  as  the  flames  mounted  to  the  sky,  that 
after  the  surrender  of  the  city,  when  their  men 
were  entering  without  suspicion,  an  organized 
volley  had  been  poured  into  them  from  the  houses 
by  civilians.  Even  the  French,  on  my  return 
ten  days  later,  admitted  that  someone  had  fired 
on  the  Germans,  but  denied  that  it  had  been  gen- 
eral. Consequently,  till  the  facts  are  known, 
the  tragedy  of  Senlis  must  be  held  an  open  ques- 
tion. 

Military  retaliation  of  this  nature  was  most 
glaringly  threatened  in  proclamations,  notices,  and 
hand-bills  on  the  walls  of  every  city  and  town 
on  my  route.  Leading  men  were  taken  hostage 
and  their  lives  held  forfeit;  all  arms  were  or- 
dered   surrendered    under    pain    of    death ;     all 


A  Report  to  the  State  Department      151 

refugee  French  soldiers  ordered  given  up.  The 
German  machine  was  severe  with  all  the  severity 
of  which  such  a  bloodless  organization  is  capable, 
for  it  was  in  a  hostile  country  and  could  not 
afford  to  trifle. 

Except  for  Senlis,  however,  the  mere  threat 
sufficed.  The  power,  momentum,  and  fatality 
of  the  German  forces  completely  cowed  the  few 
French  who  remained,  and  they  very  readily 
acceded  to  the  German  command  that  the  war 
be  a  war  between  armies  only.  There  was  scat- 
tered sniping,  of  course,  but  to  the  best  of  my 
knowledge  it  was  very  scattered  indeed.  At 
Compiegne,  for  instance,  a  German  officer  told 
me  that  several  citizens  had  been  shot  for  this 
reason. 

Nothing  was  allowed  to  impede  in  the  least 
the  progress  of  that  fearful  machine.  Hotels, 
houses,  and  above  all  food  were  commandeered, 
regardless  of  whether  or  not  the  French  were 
left  homeless  and  starving.  That  was  an  un- 
fortunate incident  of  war;  it  could  not  be  con- 
sidered when  the  Fatherland  was  at  stake.  Take 
St.    Quentin,    for    instance.     Every    meat-shop, 


152    Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

grocery,  bakery  commandeered ;  every  baker 
set  to  work  night  and  day  for  the  Germans ;  no 
trains  entering  in  three  weeks ;  small  wonder 
that  the  people  were  soon  starving. 

Requisitioning  by  the  individual  German  sol- 
dier had,  however,  been  rigorously  forbidden, 
though  naturally  the  order  could  not  be  regularly 
enforced.  In  scores  of  cases  I  saw  them  pay  for 
what  they  got ;  in  none  did  I  see  them  refuse  to 
do  so.  Inquiries  all  the  way  from  a  Valenciennes 
department  store-owner  to  a  cross-roads  inn- 
keeper convinced  me  that  individual  looting  was 
pretty  well  scattered.  German  money  had  been 
made  legal  tender  at  a  specified  rate  of  exchange 
and  was  quite  common  in  many  places,  as  was 
English  money  where  the  English  had  been. 

Stores  which  had  been  abandoned  and  small 
country  inns  fared  much  worse.  Take,  for  in- 
stance, a  Senlis  shoe-store,  where  a  whole  com- 
pany of  foot-sore  men,  weary  with  incessant 
marching,  were  making  merry  in  shoes  piled 
knee-deep  on  the  floor :  there  was  no  one  left 
to  pay,  even  if  they  had  desired,  as  in  this  case 
I  am  sure  they  would  not  have. 


A  Report  to  the  State  Department      153 

Road-side  inns  sometimes  showed  evidences  of 
wanton  destruction.  In  many  were  broken  chairs, 
mirrors,  and  windows,  together  with  a  disgusting 
accumulation  of  filth.  It  was  generally,  however, 
the  work  of  nerve-worn,  dust-choked  men,  aflame 
with  thirst  and  reckless  with  exhaustion,  rather 
than  men  filled  with  purposed  destructiveness. 
Behind  the  Germans  was  one  long  trail  of  dirt  and 
filth,  glasses,  bottles,  half-eaten,  rancid  food,  straw, 
and  refuse.  Beautiful  chateaus,  as  at  Raray,  and 
houses,  as  at  Senlis  and  Verberie,  had  suffered 
badly.  Soldiers  were  given  surprising  freedom  and 
pored  over  everything.  It  was  mostly  curiosity 
to  see  how  French  aristocracy  lived,  for  there  was 
small  chance  of  taking  away  much  loot. 

In  all  my  trip  I  saw  only  two  cases  of  absolute 
drunkenness,  both  in  a  little  inn  at  Compiegne. 
They  were  both  mild  and  did  not  prevent  their 
owners  from  leaving  in  time  to  get  to  barracks  at 
the  curfew  hour  of  nine.  Unfortunately  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  drinking,  as  shown  by  looted 
bars,  but  it  was  too  widely  distributed,  I  believe, 
and  the  discipline  was  too  severe,  to  have  al- 
lowed much  real  drunkenness. 


154    Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

Within  the  limits  of  their  necessity,  as  they 
conceived  it,  the  Germans  were  kind  and  polite 
to  the  natives.  In  cases  there  was  a  manifest 
effort  to  cultivate  good  relations  as  far  as  possi- 
ble. The  French  were  allowed  truly  surprising 
freedom  of  travel,  and  Germans  mixed  freely  and 
unguardedly  amongst  them.  Discipline  seemed 
stricter  in  large  cities  than  in  small,  while  French 
desperation  and  German  exhaustion  made  rela- 
tions more  and  more  strained  the  farther  into 
France  the  Germans  went. 

Between  individuals  there  were  often  most 
happy  instances  of  fundamental  human  interest. 
Many  a  night  I  saw  one,  two,  three  Germans 
sitting  in  dark  little  inns,  guns  stacked,  with  a 
group  of  curious  French  standing  about  in  open- 
eyed  wonderment.  It  was  the  simple  peasant 
interest  of  each  side  towards  a  foreigner. 

The  German  psychology  as  I  saw  it  might  have 
been  summed  up  in  two  phrases  :  absolute  entire 
faith  in  the  justice  of  their  cause ;  absolute 
entire  faith  in  their  ultimate  victory.  Not  a 
German  I  met  but  would  have  given  his  life  for 
the  Kaiser;   not  one  but  expressed  horror  at  what 


A  Report  to  the  State  Department      155 

was  termed  the  baseness  and  aggression  of  the 
Allies.  Phrases,  justifications,  and  execrations 
were  run  off  almost  by  rote,  monotonously  the 
same,  but  always  fervent. 

Their  attitude  towards  Americans  I  have  al- 
ready shown  in  the  instance  of  the  officer  who 
told  me  that  America  and  Germany  were  fight- 
ing Japan  over  Kiao-chao.  Evidently  the  Ger- 
man soldier  had  been  led  to  believe  that  the 
United  States  was  very  sympathetic  with  the 
Fatherland,  if  not  openly  active  in  support. 
At  all  times  my  American  passport  brought  re- 
spect and  courtesy,  and  several  times,  as  at  the 
looting  of  Senlis,  the  single  word  "Americanisch" 
changed  a  gray  mob  of  excited  soldiers  eager  to 
steal  my  bicycle  into  a  group  of  cordial  friends. 

For  the  Russians  the  Germans  evinced  the 
most  supreme  contempt.  The  Russian  army  was 
pictured  as  a  great  lumbering,  topheavy  mass 
which  would  crumble  away  like  decayed  stone 
before  German  scientific  warfare.  The  more 
soldiers  there  were  the  more  cannon-fodder,  they 
felt.  This  belief,  too,  was  heightened  by  carefully 
written    army   news   reports   of   Russian    defeats. 


156     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

At  St.  Quentin,  for  instance,  notices  in  French 
were  posted  on  the  walls  that  three  Russian  army 
corps  had  been  annihilated  and  three  generals 
and  60,000  to  70,000  men  taken  prisoner  at 
Tannenberg. 

Their  attitude  towards  the  French  was  entirely 
different.  It  may  be  described  as  rather  that  of 
a  good  sportsman  after  big  game,  who  has  little 
doubt  that  he  will  bring  down  his  quarry,  but  who 
realizes  that  there  is  danger  in  the  task.  Every- 
thing was  to  be  fair  and  clean  without  hatred  or 
ill-will.  Withal,  there  was  a  certain  contempt  for 
French  inefficiency,  mingled  with  a  genuine 
sympathy  for  a  people  who  were  considered  so 
simple  as  to  be  seduced  to  their  own  destruction 
by  perfidious  Albion. 

There  it  was  indeed,  even  at  this  early  time, 
that  the  true  bitterness  of  the  German  spirit 
stood  forth.  For  the  English  the  Germans  had 
a  most  intense  hatred.  To  their  minds  the  Is- 
land Empire  had  wriggled  like  a  snake  in  the 
grass,  spreading  its  poison  till  at  last  it  had  in- 
veigled hot-headed,  sentimental  France  to  rush 
in  to  get  revenge  for  Alsace-Lorraine  and   1870, 


A  Report  to  the  State  Department      157 

and  monstrous,  land-grabbing  Russia  to  take  up 
arms  in  overweening  hope  of  world  dominion. 
England,  the  German  soldier  felt,  was  the  arch- 
plotter  and  must  be  crushed  under  foot  for  all 
time. 

That  any  of  the  other  nations  were  sincere 
never  seemed  to  occur  to  the  German  soldier. 
I  remember  a  most  tremendous  clash  of  ideas 
and  ideals  when  a  German  prisoner  expressed  his 
view  to  a  French  sergeant.  Both  for  the  first 
time  caught  hold  of  the  fact  that  the  other  nation 
felt  itself  actuated  by  as  high  motives  as  those 
for  which  his  own  nation  was  contending.  Each 
learned  that  the  other  thought  he  was  fighting 
in  a  war  of  self-defence  against  wanton  aggres- 
sion. Finally  both  shook  their  heads  in  sympa- 
thy for  the  hopeless  ignorance  of  the  other  and 
gave  up  the  argument. 

One  point  more,  and  the  most  striking,  was  the 
Germans'  absolute  confidence  in  success.  That 
the  French  would  ever  be  able  to  save  Paris  did 
not  seem  to  occur  to  any  of  those  I  met  on  von 
Kluck's  line  of  march.  It  was  largely  a  holiday 
promenade    with    lots    of   fighting   on    the    way. 


158     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

On  August  3  the  commandant  at  Valenciennes 
told  me  they  would  be  in  Paris  September  4,  the 
anniversary  of  Sedan  ;  two  days  later  the  comman- 
dant at  Solesmes  said  he  would  meet  me  in  Paris 
September  5  ;  at  St.  Quentin,  the  commandant, 
after  giving  me  a  pass  to  Paris  itself,  agreed  to 
meet  me  there  September  7. 

The  same  confidence  prevailed  among  the 
men.  All  counted  on  disporting  themselves  on 
the  Paris  boulevards  by  the  middle  of  the  month. 
Even  when  the  retreat  to  the  Aisne  began  they 
did  not  seem  particularly  upset.  There  was  little 
more  than  the  natural  ennui  caused  by  the  feel- 
ing that  they  would  have  to  go  back  again  over 
the  same  ground. 

I  have  written  thus  fully  because,  while  admit- 
ting all  the  relentlessness  and  devastation  of  the 
German  machine,  my  three  weeks  of  practically 
unrestricted  travel  justified  almost  nothing  of 
the  stories  of  criminality  and  atrocities  commonly 
reported.  Heaven  knows,  the  horrors  of  this 
war  and  the  responsibilities  resting  on  those  who 
caused  it  are  terrible  enough  without  drawing  a 
false  and  unjust  picture  of  the  enemy. 


VIII 
GERMANY   IN  THE   SUBURBS  OF   PARIS 

What  a  Paris  it  was  I  awoke  to  to-day  on  this 
memorable  8th  of  September !  A  sadness  and  a 
fear  oppressed  the  atmosphere ;  a  silence  almost 
like  the  silence  of  the  dead  drove  like  a  heavy 
mist  through  the  deserted  streets.  The  joy  that 
I  had  felt  the  previous  day  at  the  retreat  of  the 
Germans  had  not,  it  seems,  been  founded  on  fact. 
The  field  of  battle  had  indeed  receded  from  Paris, 
but  it  was  the  German's  strategic  flanking  move 
which  took  them  around  to  the  southeast  of  the 
capital.  The  capture  of  the  proud  city  seemed 
imminent,  almost  certain  to  the  few  Parisians  left. 
The  city's  whole  vast  area  seemed  to  yawn  open, 
waiting,  like  an  empty  sepulchre.  The  govern- 
ment had  already  fled  to  Boulogne  ;  only  the  Am- 
erican Embassy  of  all  the  official  bodies  remained. 

It  was  fearfully,  fearfully  depressing.  The 
life  and  gaiety  which  had  made  Paris  was  even 

iS9 


160     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

more  conspicuously  lacking  than  when  I  had  set 
out  three  weeks  previously.  Paris  was  now  but 
a  dreary  skeleton  of  deserted  squares  and  empty 
boulevards.  Desolation,  desolation,  even  the  few 
people  left  went  nervously  and  apprehensively 
about  their  work.  Trams  ran  only  as  if  by 
accident.  The  big  busses  which  only  a  few  weeks 
before  had  lumbered  so  much  life  through  the 
streets  were  now  wallowing,  mud-stained  and 
battered,  over  army  roads.  The  few  taxis  re- 
maining were  driven  by  foreign  adventurers 
who  had  rushed  in  on  the  trail  of  war  to  turn  a 
few  pennies  from  other  people's  misfortunes. 
The  only  vehicles  which  passed  with  any  regu- 
larity were  military  machines  and  supply  wagons. 
Where  before  thousands  of  taxis,  automobiles, 
trams,  etc.,  wove  together  in  endless  confusion, 
there  now  remained  only  enough  activity  to  fur- 
ther accentuate  the  desolation.  Was  I  drunk  or 
dreaming,  I  asked  myself  with  a  start,  when  from 
the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  I  looked  down  the  mag- 
nificent sweep  of  the  Champs  d'Elysees  as  I  would 
have  looked  down  a  long,  cheerless  Pompeian 
ruin  ?     Paris  even  at  its  busiest  hours  looked  much 


Germany  in  the  Suburbs  of  Paris      161 

as  it  used  to  just  after  dawn  had  seen  the  milk- 
man on  his  rounds. 

A  real  sign  of  activity  was  the  hurry-skurrying 
newsboy  whom  the  war  had  driven  almost  into 
a  frenzy.  The  newspaper  distributing  offices  at 
edition  time  were  literally  besieged,  assailed, 
scaled,  I  almost  said,  by  physical  force,  by  a  mob 
of  men  and  boys  who  fought  each  other  for  bun- 
dles, tore  madly  across  the  city,  and  burst  wildly 
on  to  the  Boulevards.  The  scattered  groups  there 
shook  themselves  into  attention  as  if  waking 
from  lethargy,  read  anxiously  through  the  day's 
bulletins,  and  then  fell  back  once  more  into 
gloom.  No  news,  never  any  news,  only  short 
vague  official  communiques,  smothered  in  violent 
outbursts  by  famous  men  on  German  atrocities, 
barbarities,  uncouthnesses,  etc.,  ad  nauseam.  The 
Parisian  starved  for  facts. 

With  all  the  giant  minds  of  France  vying 
with  each  other  in  vilification  of  the  German  and 
all  things  German,  it  was  odd  to  see  the  Czar 
almost  deified,  and  despotic  Russia  looked  upon 
as  the  saviour  of  Republican  France  from  bar- 
baric  Germany.     What   strange   bed-fellows   war 

M 


1 62     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

makes  !  Nor  did  there  seem  to  them  anything 
barbaric,  even  unsportsman-like,  in  calling  black 
men  from  their  African  homes  to  defend  a  civ- 
ilization and  a  country  to  whom  their  greatest 
relationship  had  been  that  of  the  conquered  to 
the  conqueror. 

The  occasional  khaki-clad  Tommie  caused  the 
greatest  enthusiasm.  For  the  second,  Parisians 
would  forget  their  depression  and  sputter  away 
excitedly  to  the  unruffled  Englishmen.  Once  I 
heard  a  Tommie  tell  one  member  of  a  small  group 
of  worshippers  that  he  had  seen  neither  money 
nor  cigarettes  in  six  weeks.  Immediately  the 
Frenchman  turned  out  every  cigarette  he  had, 
the  crowd  followed  suit,  and  a  big  stranger  came 
forward  with  a  five-franc  note  "to  drink  my  son's 
health  when  you  meet  him  in  Berlin."  He  was  a 
Russian. 

Americans,  once  the  scorned  Yankee  of  the 
nation  of  shopkeepers,  could  now  sit  back  and 
smile.  All  France  came  to  them.  Always, 
when  I  said  I  was  American,  not  English,  I  was 
given  a  courteous  bow  and  the  fervent  com- 
pliment   "Ah,    the    same    thing,    Monsieur,    the 


Germany  in  the  Suburbs  of  Paris      163 

same  thing."  One  night,  crossing  the  Pont  from 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde  to  the  Chambre  des 
Deputies,  it  was  so  pitch  black  that  with  no 
light  on  my  bicycle  I  could  neither  see  my  way, 
nor,  until  an  iron  hand  gripped  my  shoulder, 
recognize  that  a  gruff  voice  near  by  was  addressed 
to  me.  A  gendarme  hauled  me  over  to  the  can- 
dle in  his  station,  grilled  me  severely  on  suspicion 
of  being  a  German,  and  finally  after  a  painful 
hour,  became  convinced  I  was  really  an  American. 
Then  he  said  : 

"Ah,  the  Americans  are  glorious.  Everyone 
knows  they  have  three  Ambassadors  here  now. 
They  are  soon  going  to  stop  these  German  bar- 
barities." 

That  was  the  common  belief.  The  three  Am- 
bassadors, I  hastened  to  learn  the  next  day, 
were  Herrick,  present,  Sharp,  coming,  and  Bacon, 
past. 

This  incident  on  the  Seine  bridge  well  illustrates 
the  transformation  which  had  gripped  Paris. 
Paris,  the  bright,  sparkling  city,  gay  with  myriad 
lights,  was  as  black  as  a  tomb.  The  Place  de  la 
Concorde,  the  most  beautiful  square  at  night  in 


164     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

the  world,  was  so  dark  it  was  positively  nerve- 
racking  to  walk  across  it  on  account  of  occa- 
sional fleeting  bicyles  or  taxis.  The  Boulevard 
St.  Germain,  up  which  I  passed  to  my  lodgings, 
was  so  dark  I  could  not  even  read  the  street- 
signs.  There  was  neither  arc,  shop,  nor  restau- 
rant light. 

The  few  restaurants  which  still  remained  open 
were  forced  to  shut  at  8  o'clock.  After  that  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  find  an  eating-place. 
By  9  o'clock  everyone  was  rushing  home ;  by  10 
only  a  few  stragglers  remained ;  by  1 1  the  mag- 
nificent boulevards  saw  only  a  few  gendarmes  or 
a  taxi  scuttling  through  the  darkness.  It  was 
the  aspect  of  Pompeii,  but  under  it  was  a  great 
pulsating  heart  almost  bursting  with  grief. 

Tension  increased  hourly.  Paris  had  seen  the 
great  German  machine  rush  over  the  ruins  of 
"impregnable"  forts,  over  the  corps  of  the  Brit- 
ish Expeditionary  Force,  over  the  hastily  concen- 
trated French,  past  Valenciennes,  past  St.  Quen- 
tin,  past  Compiegne,  even  to  the  suburbs  of  the 
capital  itself.  Was  it  another  1870,  a  second 
Sedan,  a  great    disaster   in    some    unsung   spot  ? 


Germany  in  the  Suburbs  of  Paris      165 

No,  it  was  not !  It  could  not  be ;  the  Parisians 
simply,  flatly  refused  to  have  it  so.  The  papers 
made  a  bold  heroic  front  by  recounting  brave 
resistance,  plans  for  drawing  the  Germans  on  for 
annihilation,  etc.,  to  the  limit  of  French  ingenuity. 
But  it  all  seemed  almost  puerile  in  the  face  of 
that  gigantic  moral  courage  which  saw  but  would 
not  be  convinced,  which  hoped  against  hope. 

Suddenly,  one  afternoon,  came  the  first  German 
aeroplane.  Crowds,  it  had  not  seemed  there 
were  so  many  persons  left,  flocked  to  the  Boule- 
vards. All  faces  were  turned  upwards  with  a 
mixture  of  fear  and  hatred.  It  was  the  precursor 
of  almost  daily  visits,  timed  as  if  by  schedule  for 
the  tea-hour.  Sarcastic  messages  were  dropped, 
reports  of  Russian  disasters,  and  the  dry  ad- 
vice : 

"Parisians,  you  have  naught  to  do  but  surren- 
der.    The  German  army  is  at  your  gates." 

Then,  unexpectedly,  came  the  dreaded  bombs. 
Paris  shivered  at  this  terrible,  irresistible  attack 
from  the  air.  The  flood  of  sarcasm,  hoots,  and 
jeers  which  followed  when  it  was  found  they  had 
done  no  more  than  dig  up  a  few  holes  in  the  streets 


1 66     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

only  showed  the  weight  of  apprehension  which 
had  welled  up  within.  That  most  fearsome  dan- 
ger, at  least,  had  evaporated. 

Still  the  great  German  mass  was  battling  at 
the  gates.  Uhlans,  those  most-dreaded  of  war- 
riors, had  penetrated,  it  was  commonly  reported, 
through  the  two  outer  lines  of  fortifications  to 
within  three  miles  of  the  old  walls  of  the  city. 
It  seemed  impossible  that  the  city  could  be  kept 
inviolate  from  the  barbarian  presence,  and  yet  a 
sort  of  blind  confidence,  the  confidence  of  despera- 
tion, said  that  Paris  would  be  saved  —  how  no  one 
knew.     But  saved,  yes,  most  emphatically  yes. 

By  now  Paris  had  hung  in  breathless  suspense 
for  five  days,  five  days  of  fear,  apprehension,  and 
helplessness,  with  naught  to  do  but  wait,  wait, 
wait,  for  the  outcome  of  the  fearful  battle  along 
the  Marne.  Then  suddenly,  when  the  last  shred 
of  hope  had  almost  gone,  came  little  rumors  of 
victory,  little  reports  of  advances,  little  rifts  of 
light  in  a  black  situation.  They  continued,  they 
grew,  they  became  more  definite  till  at  last  Paris 
with  official  confirmation  burst  out  in  one  great 
song  of  joy. 


Germany  in  the  Suburbs  of  Paris      167 

Instantly  there  sprang  up  a  new  life.  The 
newspapers  became  transformed.  From  mere 
diatribes  of  patriotism,  they  ascended  to  wild 
shouts  of  victory.  That  the  German  army  was 
now  but  threescore  miles  away,  that  it  might*  be 
retreating  only  to  await  reinforcements  or  draw 
the  French  into  a  trap  was  not  considered ;  the 
mighty  avalanche  had  been  stemmed  and  turned 
back;  the  French  army  had  proved  itself;  1870 
was  not  to  be  again.  France  had  won  a  glorious 
victory ;    the  war  was  all  but  over. 

For  me  it  meant  action.  During  these  anxious 
days  I  had  picked  up  another  American  of  my  own 
age,  who  gave  me  all  sorts  of  excitement,  expe- 
rience, wisdom,  and  regrets.  His  name  was  Rader, 
and  he  has  featured  heavily  in  news  despatches 
as  well  as  originating  a  Central  News  story  which 
was  cabled  home,  that  a  Mr.  Wheeler  of  Boston, 
who  had  had  all  my  experiences  line  for  line,  had 
been  riddled  by  30  bullets  by  a  German  firing- 
squad  and  then  placed  in  a  shallow  grave  with 
the  earth  shoved  over  him  with  a  dull  thudding 
sound.  Rader  claimed  to  be  an  expert  aviator ; 
yes,  indeed,   had  flown    everywhere.     He   was    a 


1 68     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

trained  reporter,  certainly;  intended  to  write  up 
Lieutenant  Porte's  transatlantic  flight.  He  was 
an  experienced  cinema  man  and  did  have  a  won- 
derful machine.  Finally,  between  you  and  me, 
he  had  come  over  to  sell  to  the  French  govern- 
ment the  invention  of  a  Philadephian  named 
Steinmetz,  by  which  you  could  trail  a  bomb  hun- 
dreds of  feet  below  an  aeroplane  and  blow  up 
whatever  you  wanted  to. 

He  had  a  plan.  We'd  join  the  French  aviation 
corps,  go  up  with  the  cinema,  beat  the  world  with 
the  first  battle-movies  from  the  air  ever  taken. 
He  would  drive  and  I  would  run  the  telephoto  on 
the  carnage  below.  Well,  for  three  days  we 
talked,  argued,  explained,  to  one  official  after  the 
other ;  we  went  from  the  Aero  Club  to  the  min- 
ister of  war  and  back  to  the  Aero  Club,  and  at 
last  having  almost  touched  hands  with  success, 
we  lost  out  because  he  had  no  proper  pilot  papers. 
He  said  he  had  lost  them  for  flying  over  a  city. 

This  hope  gone,  we  set  out  to  reconnoitre 
going  to  the  front  again.  On  a  beautiful  Sunday 
afternoon  we  took  the  train  as  far  as  the  suburb 
of  Lagny,   where   further   riding  was   cut  off  by 


Germany  in  the  Suburbs  of  Paris      169 

blown-up  bridges,  and  then  walked  out  over  what 
had  been  the  battle-fields.  All  of  Paris  was  doing 
the  same.  Men,  women,  and  children,  old  and 
young,  with  lunch-baskets  and  without,  flocked 
along  the  road  to  see  where  "les  barbares"  had 
been.  Soldiers  strolled  about,  beaming  with  joy. 
Everyone  was  exuberant  and  exultant.  It  was 
a  great  holiday  picnic,  held  only  a  few  days  after 
on  one  of  the  world's  bloodiest  battle-fields,  and 
while  even  then  the  enemy  was  barely  over  the 
crest  of  the  next  hills  beyond.  Is  anything  truly 
so  buoyant,  so  child-like,  as  the  Parisian  ? 

Once,  standing  where  less  than  a  week  before 
the  Germans  had  stood,  I  looked  off  beyond  lines 
of  barbed  wires,  beyond  ugly  scars  running  over 
the  ground,  between  two  rows  of  skinned  trees, 
into  the  hazy  distance.  There,  hard  against  the 
sky-line,  rose  a  graceful  web-like  spire.  I  con- 
templated it  long  and  thoughtfully.     Could  it  be  ? 

"Monsieur,  what  is  that  in  the  distance?"  I 
asked. 

"That,  Monsieur,  is  the  Eiffel  Tower." 

The  Eiffel  Tower !  Great  Heavens,  and  the 
Germans  had  stood  less  than  a  week  ago  where 


170     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

I  was  standing  now.  Think  of  it  —  that  super- 
human dash  through  Belgium,  through  France, 
fifteen  to  thirty  miles  a  day,  constant  fighting, 
little  sleeping,  scant  provisions,  and  finally  the 
crest  of  this  last  hill  —  and  the  Eiffel  Tower  in  the 
distance.  Imagine  the  joy  ;  the  officers  with  swords 
on  high  pointing  to  where  Paris  could  be  actually 
seen;  calling  for  one  last  superhuman  effort; 
and  then  —  the  recoil.  Think  of  the  agony  of 
that  turning  back  !  I  can  imagine  the  last  glance 
at  the  fairy-like  structure,  the  glance  of  the 
nation's  whole  soul,  baffled,  defeated,  the  emo- 
tions almost  powerful  enough  to  lift  the  van- 
quished up  and  dash  him  against  the  tower's 
iron  ribs  ;  the  sob  of  anger  and  anguish  as  'faces 
were  finally  turned  in  retreat.  Truly  it  is  one 
of  the  great  tragedies  of  history,  [this  retreat,  for 
glorious  though  it  was  for  the  French,  it  was 
by  just  the  same  measure  anguishing  to  the 
Germans. 

Indeed  the  Germans  were  so  near  Paris  that 
not  only  could  they  actually  see  it,  but  at  places, 
as  at  Lagny,  they  could  have  taken  a  tram-car 
into  the  capital. 


Germany  in  the  Suburbs  of  Paris      171 

With  the  ground  laid  out  by  this  reconnoitre 
Rader  and  I  set  out  two  days  later,  moving- 
picture  machine  and  all.  Trouble  got  up  early 
to  meet  us.  A  surly  police  commissioner,  the 
first,  by  the  way,  I  had  met,  railed  and  stormed, 
refused  us  a  passport,  and  ordered  us  back  to 
Paris.  Consequently,  we  went  over  this  gentle- 
man's head  to  the  military  commander.  Very 
pleasantly  he  too  refused  us  a  pass  and  forbade  us 
to  use  our  movie  outfit.  It  was  twelve  miles  from 
where  we  were  to  Meaux,  too  far  to  walk  with  our 
heavy  outfit,  and  it  was  almost  beyond  possi- 
bility to  find  a  carriage  or  auto. 

Luck,  bad  French,  and  perseverance,  however, 
almost  always  pull  one  through.  From  a  hint 
dropped  by  a  Frenchman  who  spoke  English  and 
with  the  aid  of  a  score  of  others  who  did  not,  we 
stumbled  on  a  little  river  tug  requisitioned  by 
the  army  to  carry  salt  up  the  Marne  to  the  sol- 
diers. A  good-natured  captain,  not  even  interested 
in  our  formidable  movie  apparatus,  was  only  too 
glad  to  let  us  come  along,  without  charge  at  that. 
So,  nestled  comfortably  in  a  pile  of  hay,  with  our 
machines    carefully    buried    at    the    bottom,    and 


172     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

with  a  good  lunch  and  a  bottle  of  wine  at  our  sides, 
we  steamed  leisurely  down  the  little  stream,  a 
dreamy,  cloudless  sky  overhead  and  serried  lines 
of  sentries  along  the  banks.  It  was  a  beautiful 
trip,  serene  and  uneventful,  with  an  occasional 
stop  for  locks  or  the  customary  glass  of  wine, 
through  a  country  where  it  was  said  not  even  a 
rabbit  could  go. 

Every  bridge  along  the  whole  way  stood  yawn- 
ing in  two  or  crumbled  in  ruins,  the  work  of 
precipitous  British  engineers  in  their  flight  be- 
hind the  protection  of  the  river.  In  the  water 
beneath  one  of  them  could  be  seen  the  upturned 
wheels  of  a  German  automobile  which  unknowingly 
had  rushed  at  high  speed  into  the  broken  part. 
For  all  anyone  knew  the  corpses  were  still  pinned 
in  their  death-seats. 

Meaux  slipped  quietly  by  without  appeal  to  us. 
At  last  about  dusk,  we  made  the  little  town  of 
Germigny-PEveque,  at  the  foot  of  the  battle-field 
of  the  Marne,  where  England,  France,  and  Ger- 
many had  locked  horns  for  five  fearful  days. 
'Twas  a  forlorn  town  indeed,  almost  entirely 
deserted    and    oppressive    with    the    after-battle 


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Germany  in  the  Suburbs  of  Paris      173 

stillness.  We  came  to  a  little  inn  where  we 
hoped  to  have  supper  and  spend  the  night.  An 
old  lady,  too  feeble  to  flee  when  the  Germans 
had  come,  and  now  garrulous  in  her  excitement, 
said  she  could  not  even  give  us  coffee.  Her 
one  thought  in  life  seemed  to  be  to  show  us  the 
havoc  the  Germans  had  wrought,  the  mattresses, 
straw,  and  filth  which  littered  every  room  almost 
knee-deep ;  the  broken  windows,  mirrors,  and 
furniture ;   the  drawers  pulled  out  and  ransacked. 

We  left  her  whimpering  at  the  doorway  and 
pushed  on  across  the  river  to  Vareddes.  There 
things  were  even  worse.  Great  holes  were  rent 
in  walls  and  buildings  by  shell  fire,  and  the  whole 
town  scarred  with  rifle  bullets.  Only  a  half-dozen 
men  remained  of  the  entire  population,  and  one 
of  these,  an  ugly  customer,  would  gladly  have 
strangled  Rader  and  me  on  mere  suspicion  if  it 
had  not  been  that  we  had  attached  to  ourselves 
a  quiet  little  French  artist  who  was  seeking  some 
sick  relatives. 

Here,  by  the  best  of  fortune  and  much  hard 
work  with  a  penknife,  I  was  able  to  get  one  of  the 
Requisition  Orders  which  I  had  seen  on  the  official 


174     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

bulletin  boards  all  the  way  from  the  Belgian 
frontier.  I  give  a  translation  as  showing  the 
minutiae  of  military  organization  and  the  direct 
personal  application  of  war. 

"By  application  of  the  laws  and  decrees  of 
military  requisition,  it  is  ordered  that  every  owner  : 
(i)  of  animals  under  registration,  (2)  of  animals, 
registration  postponed  as  temporarily  unfit  for 
service,  (3)  of  stallions  and  mares  six  years  old  or 
of  mules  4  years  old  since  the  last  registration  (the 
age  to  be  counted  from  January  1  of  the  year  of 
birth),  (4)  of  animals  brought  into  the  commune 
since  the  last  registration,  or  not  presented  then 
for  whatever  reason  and  being  of  the  age  indicated 
above,  must  present  them  on  the  sixth  day  of 
mobilization  at  9  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  Com- 
mission of  Requisition  Number  14. 

"The  animals  must  be  brought  with  snaffle- 
bridle,  halter  provided  with  a  tether,  and  shoeing 
in  good  condition.  Owners  of  carriages  classed 
since  the  day  of  registration  are  ordered  to  bring 
them  to  the  place  of  summons  together  with  the 
horses.  If  one  of  these  carriages  has  been  replaced 
by  another  since  the  last  registration,   the  new 


Germany  in  the  Suburbs  of  Paris      175 

carriage  must  be  presented  to  the  Commission. 
All  carriages  subject  to  requisition  must  be  brought 
before  the  Commission,  even  if  their  team  is  com- 
posed of  animals  discharged  or  under  age.  The 
carriages  and  harnesses  must  be  in  good  condition 
and  the  carriages  provided  with  their  reins,  awn- 
ings, and  grease-plugs  as  far  as  possible.  The 
Mayor  or  his  representative  must  present  himself 
at  the  place  of  summons ;  he  will  bring  with  him 
tables  Number  2  and  i\  since  the  last  registration. 

"Every  violation  of  the  foregoing  rules  will  be 
punished  with  the  full  rigor  of  the  law." 

By  now  it  was  dismally  dark  and  pouring  rain. 
There  was  nothing  to  eat  and  no  place  to  sleep. 
At  last,  as  Rader  and  I  were  discussing  breaking 
into  a  house,  our  ugly  friend  splashed  up  the  slimy 
street  to  suggest  we  go  to  the  Town  Hall.  We 
found  the  building  black  and  empty.  A  greasy 
lantern  gave  us  light  and  we  went  upstairs  to  the 
Mayor's  office,  which  we  found  littered  with  straw, 
bandages,  and  bloodsoaked  German  uniforms 
and  piles  of  local  maps  and  charts. 

There,  amidst  all  the  horrible  wreckage,  we  had 
supper  of  hard  bread  and  sweet  chocolate.     By 


176     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

good  fortune  Radcr,  nosing  about  inquisitively, 
unearthed  a  squeaking  phonograph  which  gave 
us  music  unusual  enough  to  drive  away  the  evil 
memories  of  the  place.  Then  with  the  rain  falling 
in  torrents  outside,  we  picked  our  way  to  the  city 
jail  and  spent  the  night  in  the  straw.  It  was  a 
hard  night,  and  its  memory  was  made  no  more 
pleasant  when  on  rising  I  found  that  a  comforter 
I  had  dragged  over  me  for  shelter  was  heavily 
clotted  with  blood. 

Early  the  next  day,  with  little  breakfast  and 
covered  with  straw,  we  climbed  a  gentle  hill  to 
what  had  been  one  of  the  main  German  posi- 
tions. A  rim  of  trenches,  filled  with  straw  and 
empty  cartridges,  ran  across  the  top.  Big  gaping 
shell  wounds  with  exploded  jackets  and  thousands 
of  pieces  of  shrapnel  scattered  about  testified  to 
the  efficiency  of  French  artillery.  Slightly  to  the 
rear  were  the  big  holes  where  heavy  guns  had  been 
set,  and  where  empty  shells  and  in  some  cases  live 
ones  abandoned  in  retreat  attested  the  work  which 
had  been  done.  All  about  were  new-made  graves 
so  thinly  covered  that  in  spots  nests  of  maggots 
as  big  as  one's  fist  were  visible  at  their  filthy  work. 


Germany  in  the  Suburbs  of  Paris      177 

Over  all  hung  the  silence  of  death.  The  co- 
lossal struggle  so  recently  waged  there  was  already 
fading  into  history,  and  a  few  birds  and  curious 
peasants  alone  remained  as  if  to  mock  what  had 
there  taken  place.  Scarred,  deserted,  unterri- 
fied,  the  beautiful,  smiling  country  lay  wide  open 
to  Heaven  as  if  in  testimony  of  the  futility  and 
shame  of  it  all.  Man  had  come,  looked,  and 
done  his  horrible  work,  and  now  Nature  lay 
wounded  but  quiet  to  meditate  the  wickedness. 

Two  little  red-roofed  villages  lay  peaceful  in 
the  sun  below,  deserted.  Beyond  the  gentle, 
silvery  Marne  wound  about  through  rich  green 
fields,  marked  out  like  checker  boards.  Farther 
still  were  the  heights  on  which  the  English  and 
the  French  had  in  their  desperation  prepared  their 
catapult.  It  was  a  glorious  country,  rich,  fer- 
tile, smiling. 

The  great  German  wedge  which  had  driven 
straight  towards  the  heart  of  France  had  fought 
its  way  to  a  magnificent  position.  Soldiers  drag- 
ging the  heavy  artillery  up  the  hill-crest  were  re- 
warded by  looking  over  Meaux  cathedral  almost 
into  Paris   itself.     But  the   terrible  weakness  of 

N 


178     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

the  situation  was  all  too  plainly  shown  by  the 
shell-marks  visible  on  both  sides  of  the  hill. 
The  German  forces  were  caught  squarely  between 
two  fires.  Across  the  bridgeless  Marne  stood 
France's  whole  army,  intact,  carefully  intrenched  ; 
on  the  German  flank,  almost  on  their  rear,  there 
suddenly  burst  that  mysterious  army  which  so 
dramatically  crushed  von  Kluck's  meteoric  dash. 

It  seemed  as  if  here  on  this  very  hill  the  German 
bolt  had  been  spent.  Their  constantly  thinning 
line  of  men,  exhausted  by  four  weeks  of  super- 
human effort  and  crippled  by  a  three-hundred- 
mile  line  of  army  transport  communication,  had 
come  for  the  first  time  against  a  real  French  army, 
an  army  practically  fresh  in  strength,  settled  in 
positions  of  its  own  choosing,  protected  by  a 
bridgeless  river,  and  with  a  line  of  communica- 
tions not  ten  miles  long.  The  Germans  were 
forced  to  come  to  the  big  battle  nearly  spent. 
For  five  days  they  pounded,  until  when  that 
cloud  came  up  on  their  flank,  they  slipped  out 
sideways  towards  the  east  and  back  to  the  Aisne. 

Somehow  we  ourselves  felt  like  ghouls  as  we 
moved  about  taking  moving  pictures.     The  earth 


Germany  in  the  Suburbs  of  Paris      179 

seemed  hallowed  by  the  passions  and  struggles 
which  had  passed  over  it.  The  dead  alone 
seemed  to  have  title  to  it.  So,  after  I  had  served 
as  a  dead  German  and  worked  other  dodges  of 
the  movie  game,  we  were  only  too  glad  to  go 
back  to  Paris.  Strangely  enough,  the  only  people 
we  saw  on  the  way  were  three  American  women 
who  had  come  out  to  look  around. 


IX 
PRISONER  AGAIN 

And  now  by  this  eighteenth  day  of  September 
the  forces  of  France,  England,  and  Germany  were 
locked  in  another  terrible  battle  along  the  Aisne. 
The  front  had  moved  over  ioo  kilometres  back 
from  Paris,  and  reports,  self-consciously  vague, 
showed  the  Allies'  left  by  Compiegne  slowly 
pushing  the  Germans  in  towards  destruction  at 
their  centre.  "Les  barbares"  were  said  to  be 
boxed  and  cut  off  from  supplies  of  food,  gasoline, 
and  ammunition,  and  a  decisive  victory  was 
momentarily  expected  in  Paris.  So  bad  indeed 
was  the  reported  plight  of  the  Germans  that 
post-mortems  on  dead  soldiers  were  said  to  show 
that  many  had  nothing  in  their  stomachs  but 
sand. 

Despite  fervent  oaths  during  my  first  trip  that 
if  I  survived  I  would  never  try  to  go  out  to  the 
front  again,  the  call  of  that  mighty  struggle  could 

1 80 


Prisoner  Again  181 

not  be  denied.  Rader,  too,  was  blusteringly  anx- 
ious to  go  out.  So  together  we  secured  knapsacks 
for  extra  clothing,  chocolate,  sardines,  bread,  and 
many  packages  of  cigarettes,  which  I  had  learned 
had  the  value  of  gold.  As  a  sop  to  conscience  we 
spent  a  whole  day  rustling  from  one  official  to  an- 
other for  passports,  but  might  as  well  have  tried 
to  break  into  heaven.  A  newspaperman  was 
about  as  popular  as  a  leper,  and  we  were  forced 
to  set  out  with  only  our  American  passports,  which 
had  already  proved  their  worthlessness. 

By  dint  of  tremendous  effort  we  succeeded  in 
getting  our  bicycles,  our  knapsacks,  and  our- 
selves into  the  Gare  du  Nord,  where  after  another 
struggle  we  loaded  the  whole  entourage  on  to  a 
train  jammed  with  peasants  and  sightseers. 
We  hitched  our  way  along  through  the  forts  of 
Paris,  past  great  areas  of  barbed-wire  entangle- 
ments and  destroyed  woods,  as  far  as  Montsoult, 
where  we  were  unceremoniously  dumped  out 
into  an  inhospitable  and  deserted  countryside. 
Beyond  that  line  civilians  were  not  supposed  to 
go ;  beyond  it  lay  almost  certain  imprisonment, 
perhaps  in  conformity  with  the  spy  mania. 


1 82     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

Discretion  was  gone ;  we  jumped  on  our  bicy- 
cles and  were  off.  Soon  we  passed  the  beautiful 
Chateau  at  Chantilly,  which  had  been  entered 
but  not  harmed  by  the  Germans,  and  spent  the 
night  near  by.  Next  day  we  pedalled  on  to  Sen- 
lis.  The  buildings  which  on  my  entry  with  the 
Germans  ten  days  before  had  been  a  mass  of  wild, 
raging  flame  were  now  only  cold  piles  of  crumbled 
masonry  and  half-standing  walls.  Even  so  soon, 
however,  the  industrious  French  people  had  come 
back  to  begin  the  work  of  reconstruction,  as 
busy  as  ants  about  an  ant-hill  into  which  one 
has  stuck  a  stick.  The  beautiful  mansion  which 
I  had  occupied  with  my  two  German  friends 
remained  as  cold  and  deserted  as  when  we  had 
left  it. 

On  we  went  through  Villeneuve,  where  only  two 
weeks  ago  but  twelve  men  out  of  five  hundred  had 
remained.  A  nice  old  peasant  friend  of  my  previous 
trip  hailed  me  in  passing,  and  took  me  into  his  shop 
to  show  the  destruction  the  Germans  had  wrought, 
and  the  blood-stained  helmet  and  cuirass  of  a 
French  cavalryman  who  had  been  shot  in  the 
forehead  on  the  roadway  just  outside  and  crawled 


Prisoner  Again  183 

into  the  house  to  die.  Stains  were  still  visible 
on  the  floor ;   the  corpse  had  been  buried  outside. 

At  Verberie  we  came  across  two  wounded  Tom- 
mies of  the  Belfast  Fusilliers,  youngsters  well 
under  twenty,  who  had  lain  seriously  ill  for  three 
whole  weeks,  practically  unattended  in  an  impro- 
vised Red  Cross  hospital.  One  had  carried  a  bullet 
in  his  knee  all  that  time  and  could  not  straighten 
out  his  leg;    the  other  had  a  bad  shoulder  wound. 

"It  was  three  weeks  ago,"  one  of  them  said 
weakly,  "that  we  came  into  this  town.  We 
weren't  expecting  any  trouble ;  the  Dutchers 
were  well  away,  and  we  had  flags  out  and  every- 
thing like  dress  parade.  Suddenly  a  machine- 
gun  opened  wide  on  us ;  we  couldn't  tell  from 
where,  and  we  went  down  like  flies.  Something 
bowled  me  on  to  my  face  and  I  couldn't  get  up 
again.  I'd  got  it  on  the  knee.  There  were  half  a 
dozen  others  crawling  around  too,  and  our  only 
idea  was  to  get  out  of  that  hell.  We  crawled  to 
a  house,  smashed  in  the  door  with  our  guns,  and 
crawled  inside.  Pretty  soon  the  firing  stopped, 
and  I  guess  our  boys  had  got  it  good  and  plenty. 
Then  a  big  German  officer  burst  in  the  door. 


184     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

"'Come  out  here,  you  dirty  beasts.  Come 
out,  you're  going  to  get  shot.  There's  no  mercy 
for  dogs  like  you.  What  right  have  you  to  be 
fighting  over  here,  anyway  ?  you  and  your  Ind- 
ian niggers  ?' 

"He  was  like  a  mad  bull.  We  tried  to  get  up 
but  couldn't.  He  swore  wildly  at  us  and  slapped 
us  with  his  sword.  God  knows  what  would  have 
happened  if  a  German  Red  Cross  man  hadn't 
happened  to  come  in  ;  I  guess  we  would  all  have 
been  finished.  At  last  he  let  the  Red  Cross  man 
have  us,  and  here  we've  been  ever  since." 

Poor  kids,  I  thought,  they  certainly  had  seen 
war.  When  I  begged  them  to  let  me  do  some- 
thing for  them,  one,  after  looking  at  the  other, 
stammered  timorously : 

"We  haven't  had  a  fag  since  we've  been  here." 

Truly  it  would  have  done  your  soul  good  to 
have  seen  the  radiance  which  lit  up  their  faces 
when  I  gave  them  a  whole  package.  Cigarettes 
to  a  Tommie  are  like  water  to  a  man  dying  of 
thirst. 

Faintly  now,  ever  so  faintly,  we  could  hear 
the  big  guns  again.     Ah,  that  indeed  seemed  like 


Prisoner  Again  185 

home.  I  don't  know  why,  but  in  a  short  time  the 
noise  of  artillery  had  come  to  fascinate  me,  to 
leave  almost  a  painful  void  when  absent,  to  cre- 
ate a  craving  for  more  when  present.  It  was  a 
little  like  the  drunkard's  liking  for  drink  perhaps, 
certainly  it  was  equally  undesirable.  It  was 
the  horror  and  awesomeness  of  the  whole  thing 
that  enthralled  one,  body  and  soul. 

"We'll  get  pinched,  Phil,"  I  remarked  as  we 
hastened  towards  it. 

"I  don't  care,"  Rader  replied.  "We've  got  to 
get  there." 

At  La  Croix  St.  Ouen  we  ran  into  things.  The 
little  town  was  thick  with  French  cavalry.  We 
rode  on  as  nonchalantly  as  possible,  straight 
through,  and  were  just  about  out  when  a  heavy 
voice  called  us.  We  dismounted  and  were  led 
back  to  a  group  of  under-officers.  Things  were 
going  badly  for  us  till  Phil  handed  out  a  ciga- 
rette ;  then  matters  changed  and  we  became 
almost  guests.  It  occurred  to  someone  to  call 
two  English  Tommies  who  had  been  split  off 
from  their  own  regiment  and  formally  amal- 
gamated with  the  French. 


1 86     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

"Well,  by  Jove,"  said  one,  "you  are  nervy. 
It's  jolly  nasty  up  there,  you  know ;  let's  have  a 
drink." 

We  did  —  and  several.  Pretty  soon  the  other 
Tommie  took  an  empty  cartridge  out  of  his 
pocket  and  looked  at  it  fondly. 

"I  say,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  think  of  that? 
It's  jolly  nice,  really.  It  got  my  first  German. 
You  see,  we'd  just  got  out  from  England  and 
only  eight  hours  later  were  in  the  trenches.  We 
were  opposite  a  little  village  on  the  crest  of  a 
hill,  God  knows  where,  up  Belgium  way  is  all 
I  know.  Pretty  quick  work,  though,  eight 
hours,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"It  certainly  was,"  I  replied.  "How'd  you 
like  it?" 

"  Beastly  unpleasant,"  he  went  on.  "  I  thought 
I'd  funk  out  at  first.  It  wasn't  the  shells  that 
bothered  me  so  much ;  somehow  we'd  come  out 
expecting  them.  It's  the  little  things  you  don't 
expect  that  give  you  a  turn.  I  suppose  it's  be- 
cause you're  a  bit  nervous,  anyway.  Take  the 
rain-water;  it  was  up  to  our  knees  and  no  chance 
to  get  away  from  it.     There  wasn't  a  bally  thing 


Prisoner  Again  187 

to  smoke,  either,  not  a  fag  in  the  whole  company. 
And  you  get  fearful  fed  up  when  there's  not  a 
bally  thing  to  do  but  be  a  target  —  it  gets  on  your 
nerves." 

He  seemed  to  be  losing  the  thread  of  his  story. 
I  asked  how  long  he  was  there. 

"God  knows,"  he  replied.  "Years  it  seemed, 
and  yet  I  don't  suppose  it  was  long,  either.  I 
felt  so  cramped  and  nervous  it  seemed  as  though 
I'd  blow  up  —  and  then  someone  took  to  sniping. 
There  was  an  officer  in  the  nearest  German 
trenches  —  I  could  just  make  him  out  —  and  I 
drew  my  gun  on  him.  It's  a  funny  feeling  the 
first  time  you  shoot  at  a  man,  and  it  was  quite  a 
while  before  I  let  go.  I  caught  him  cold,  and  he 
crumpled  up  as  if  he  hadn't  a  bone  in  his  body." 

He  paused  a  moment,  juggling  the  empty 
shell  in  his  fingers.  His  expression  was  proud  and 
joyous. 

"Well,"  he  went  on,  "I  slipped  that  cartridge 
out  on  the  spot.  It  was  my  first  German  and  I 
thought  what  a  bully  souvenir  it  would  make  for 
the  wife.  First-class,  eh  ?  Don't  you  think 
she'll  like  it?" 


1 88    Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

Weakly  I  nodded  assent.  Yet  I  could  not  but 
wonder  what  a  wife,  perhaps  a  mother,  would 
think  of  this  "first-class"  souvenir.  Would  she, 
too,  glorify  in  this  man-killing,  or  would  she,  as  I 
did,  shudder  ? 

My  friend,  however,  had  well  paid  for  his 
sport.  Three  regiments,  one  after  another,  had 
been  piled  up  before  the  German  artillery  when 
his  was  ordered  in.  Somehow  he  lived  through 
it  to  suffer  the  horrors  of  the  Great  Retreat. 
Once  they  turned  to  charge  with  the  bayonet ; 
once  the  old  abandoned  formations  ordered  by 
their  old-time  Captain  drew  on  them  the  fire  of 
their  own  artillery.  In  vain  they  waved  flags 
and  handkerchiefs,  till  with  shells  bursting  mur- 
derously around  them  they  sought  shelter  be- 
hind a  large  factory. 

Then  one  night  in  the  helter-skelter  pell-mell 
of  the  retreat  he  was  left  out  on  sentry  duty  with- 
out relief.  For  hours  and  hours  he  waited,  till 
after  dawn,  and,  on  returning,  found  his  regi- 
ment had  decamped  in  the  midst  of  the  night. 
He  struck  out  southwards  alone,  along  the  open 
road  with  no  idea  where  to  go,  till  by  chance  he 


Prisoner  Again  189 

ran  into  the  French  troops  he  was  now  with. 
Eight  times  in  succession  they  beat  against  the 
enemy's  lines  before  finally  breaking  free.  One 
day  they  were  under  fire  twenty  times ;  one  night 
they  slept  within  one  hundred  yards  of  the  en- 
emy's guns  and  learned  the  fact  only  when  greeted 
with  a  murderous  fire  at  dawn. 

And  now  the  two  Tommies  were  treated  as 
kings.  Most  of  their  time  passed  in  making  merry 
with  their  new  comrades,  who  were  only  too  glad 
to  lionize  their  strange  recruits.  The  only  draw- 
back, they  said,  was  that  they  always  had  to  be 
the  last  to  flee,  always  had  to  seek  the  spot  of 
greatest  danger.  There  was  one  little  French- 
man they  told  me  who  was  their  very  idol. 
Imagine  my  surprise,  and  his  too,  when  on  their 
seeking  him  out,  I  found  him  to  be  none  other 
than  the  sergeant  who  had  done  so  much  for  me 
when  I  had  been  a  prisoner  at  Nanteuil. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "I  have  thought  of  you  many 
times.  I  was  afraid  we  had  made  it  so  hot  for 
you  that  you  would  not  come  back.  And  now 
you  come.  I  am  glad.  It  is  very  interesting 
now." 


190    Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

But  light  was  fading,  and  all  too  soon  it  was 
necessary  to  push  on.  Our  friends  saw  us  on 
past  the  guards  and  we  found  ourselves  once 
more  within  the  lines.  All  along  the  way  lay 
the  backwash  of  a  huge  army ;  in  one  place  over 
a  hundred  dust-covered  Paris  motor-busses;  in 
another  a  great  detachment  of  cavalry  already 
pitching  camp  for  the  night.  Horses  were  being 
tethered  and  camp-fires  lit  as  we  came  to  the 
outskirts  of  Compiegne. 

What  a  different  city  it  was  from  the  Com- 
piegne I  had  entered  fifteen  days  before  with  the 
Germans.  The  sombre  gray  had  been  replaced 
with  uniforms  of  blue  and  red.  Fear  and  tense- 
ness had  given  way  to  joy  and  freedom.  No  dam- 
age was  visible.  It  was  just  like  returning  home 
when  we  went  to  the  little  inn  where  I  had  stayed 
before.  But  now,  instead  of  eating  behind  a  par- 
tition with  a  trio  of  drunken  German  soldiers 
blustering  in  the  main  room,  we  mixed  freely  and 
joyously  with  the  exuberant  French. 

The  next  morning  the  moment  we  awoke  a 
deep  pounding  roar  not  unlike  the  heavy  rumble 


Prisoner  Again  191 

of  a  distant  thunderstorm  echoed  in  our  ears. 
Grim,  sullen,  fearful,  the  big  guns  were  at  their 
awful  work  again.  The  heavy  artillery  of  two 
monstrous  armies  was  snarling  at  each  other, 
till  the  whole  heaven  echoed  with  the  ugly  rever- 
beration. For  eight  days  now  the  first  flush  of 
dawn  had  seen  the  gunners  take  their  positions 
with  never  a  let-up,  never  a  moment  of  relaxa- 
tion unless  for  taking  another  position  or  allow- 
ing the  red-hot  barrels  to  cool.  And  always  men 
torn,  cut,  ripped  open  in  that  recrudescence  of 
their  primitive  savagery. 

Never  was  noise  so  magnetic  as  that  of  the 
big  guns  of  the  battle  of  the  Aisne.  Full  well  we 
realized  we  would  certainly  be  caught;  that 
men's  passions  were  at  fever  heat ;  that  short 
shift  was  made  of  suspicious  cases.  It  mattered 
not ;  the  call  of  the  big  guns  overruled  all.  Where 
the  great  elemental  forces  of  man  were  playing 
such  havoc,  where  the  world's  greatest  powers 
had  been  gripped  in  a  death-struggle  for  eight 
days  without  decision,  where  lives  of  men  were  as 
chafF  before  the  lives  of  nations,  oh,  it  was  im- 
possible to  pass   it  by !      We    were    magnetized, 


192     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

mesmerized  by  the  awful  music.  To  see,  to  feel, 
to  be  near,  smashed  into  atoms  all  thought  of 
caution  or  safety. 

Of  course  we  tried  to  get  papers ;  of  course  we 
failed.  The  Mayor  frankly  suspected  us ;  a 
British  officer  laconically  remarked  that  we 
could  take  our  chances,  but  he  would  like  to  see 
us  when  we  got  back.  We  could  get  nothing  but 
our  valueless  American  passports  already  sus- 
piciously vised  for  travel  outside  France. 

"Phil,"  I  said,  "we're  sure  to  get  it.  No  man 
alive  can  run  along  that  battle-line  to  Soissons 
and  the  novelty  of  jail  life  with  foodless  days, 
sleepless  nights,  and  rigorous  inquisitions  has 
worn  off  a  bit  for  me.  Still  I'm  for  it  if  you 
are." 

"Bet  your  life,"  said  Phil.  "Let's  not  cry 
before  we're  hurt." 

It  was  a  beautiful  day  as  we  bicycled  out  of 
the  city  on  to  a  splendid  wood  road.  Rich  sun- 
light streamed  through  the  reddening  trees  and 
gave  a  welcome  warmth  to  the  chill  air  of  the 
forest.  We  passed  occasional  little  farm-houses, 
deserted  and  silent,  old  men  standing  awestruck 


Prisoner  Again  193 

at  the  doors,  their  faces  ever  towards  the  thunder. 
A  few  women  were  crying  with  fear;  now  and 
then  a  cart,  piled  high  with  a  few  precious  posses- 
sions, careened  madly  along  the  road,  bearing  the 
last  few  crazed  peasants  in  wild  flight  from  the 
horrors  they  could  stand  no  longer  —  such  is  the 
incidental   scourge  of  war. 

Then  came  the  first  wounded,  limping,  strug- 
gling, straggling  along  like  spectres  through  the 
quiet  road.  One  hopped  along  painfully  on  one 
foot,  the  other  foot  dangling  as  though  unstrung. 
Another  faltered  step  by  step,  his  head  swathed 
in  bandages,  on  one  side  a  slit  for  his  eye,  on  the 
other  a  coloring  of  rich  red.  Often  they  came  in 
pairs,  one  supporting  the  other ;  sometimes  in 
ragged,  bandaged,  blood-stained  groups.  Their 
eyes  looked  blankly  and  unseeing  towards  us. 
Hardly  a  word  passed  between  them.  They 
seemed  no  longer  men,  but  mere  automatons 
striving  without  hope  only  to  get  away.  The  God 
of  Battle  had  had  his  fill ;  he  was  now  but  vomit- 
ing forth  what  he  no  longer  wanted.  How  many, 
I  wondered,  would  ever  reach  the  end  of  the  wood- 
road  ? 


194     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

Among  them  were  scores  of  Turcos,  big,  stal- 
wart, swarthy,  who  had  been  uprooted  from  the 
peace  and  happiness  of  their  native  land  to  fight 
a  war  they  knew  nor  cared  not  of.  Fierce,  brutal, 
even  barbarous,  they  are  said  to  be  in  the  heat  of 
battle,  but  those  who  passed  us  certainly  did  not 
look  it.  Their  big  soft  eyes  were  liquid  and  melt- 
ing. Their  fez  and  baggy  trousers  fitted  oddly 
in  this  forest  of  France.  What  we  call  civiliza- 
tion certainly  exacts  a  bitter  toll  from  those  who 
are  forced  by  gunfire  to  accept  it. 

Louder  and  more  sullen  were  the  big  guns  now. 
We  hastened  along  in  a  sort  of  grim  silence.  Sud- 
denly we  burst  out  of  the  woods  —  puffs  of  white 
smoke  in  the  air,  a  twinkling  flash,  another  puff 

—  Great  Heavens  !  it  was  bursting  shells  —  and 
yes,  there  were  men  over  there  beneath  them  — 
men  with  red  pantaloons  —  trenches  just  under 
the  crest  —  the  Germans  had  the  range  exactly 

—  ah,  God,  what  a  massacre !  Boom,  way  off 
in  the  distance ;  a  sobbing,  racking  wail ;  it 
vibrated  like  a  gigantic  string;  it  mounted  into 
a  whistling,  screaming  shriek;  it  crashed  with  a 
final,   stunning  crash  into  a  thousand  atoms  ;    a 


Prisoner  Again  195 

twinkling  flash  against  the  azure  blue;  a  rain  of 
lead  on  the  helpless  men  below ;  a  little  cotton- 
ball  of  white  smoke  drifted  off  in  the  air  —  and 
God  knows  how  many  more  souls  were  loosed 
for  their  last  resting-place.  Another  express 
train  roar,  another  crash,  another  cotton-ball 
of  smoke,  and  another,  and  another,  and  an- 
other. 

The  men,  poor  devils,  were  on  the  crest  of  a 
ridge  just  across  the  Aisne  off  to  our  extreme  left. 
Before  us  was  a  big  meadow  land,  a  seething  whirl- 
pool of  wagons,  cavalry,  and  soldiers,  where  the 
first  line  of  reserves,  supplies,  and  convoys  stood 
ready  to  supply  the  advance  trenches.  Eddies 
of  movement  were  visible  here  and  there,  where 
one  little  unit  sought  to  extricate  itself  to  go  its 
way.  Directly  in  front  of  us  the  road  we  were 
on  ran  down  past  a  thin  line  of  peasant  homes, 
through  the  confusion  of  the  meadow,  past  a 
cross-roads  running  back  into  the  woods  behind, 
and  on  into  the  trees  on  the  other  side.  Along 
it  two  ill-defined  lines  of  wagons  worked  their 
way  in  opposite  directions,  one  of  them  turning 
off"  at  the  cross-roads  even  as  we  watched. 


196     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

'Twas  just  across  the  narrow  Aisne,  barely 
seventy-five  yards  wide,  that  the  German  shells 
were  bursting  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  The 
French  had  intrenched  just  below  the  top  of  a 
gentle  ridge  paralleling  the  river,  a  ridge  which 
will  probably  be  distinguished  in  history  as  the 
heights  of  the  Aisne.  Below,  swarms  of  men 
waited,  waited,  for  the  unseen  death  from  above. 

Click,  click,  click,  the  snapping,  clacking  rattle 
of  the  Maxim  spitting  forth  its  torrents  of  bullets, 
hideous  as  the  devil's  own  cackle,  a  noise  not  of 
men  but  of  demons.  It  barked  above  and  beyond 
the  screech  of  the  big  guns  ;  it  was  silenced  mo- 
mentarily during  the  explosions,  only  to  break 
out  with  harsher  venom  in  the  ensuing  silence. 
The  skeleton  of  death  itself  could  alone  by  snap- 
ping all  its  bones  together  in  hollow  frenzy  have 
equalled  this  inhuman  noise.  And  the  gunner, 
lying  flat  on  his  belly,  sighting  down  the  ranks 
before  him  — 

Where,  I  wondered,  were  the  glories  of  war, 
the  heroic  charges,  the  cavalry  dashing  through 
a  rain  of  smoke  and  iron,  the  batteries  close 
behind,  messengers,  aides-de-camp,  and  orderlies 


Prisoner  Again  197 

dashing  about ;  where  indeed  was  the  bird's-eye 
battle-scene  which  I  had  visualized  from  paint- 
ings and  war  books  ?  Few  such  delusions  were 
held  by  those  poor  devils  crouching  resignedly 
in  the  trenches  across  the  river  while  death  flared 
down  on  them  from  above,  and  little  heroism  or 
grandeur  of  soul  was  shown  by  the  men  flounder- 
ing around  on  the  road  before  me. 

Modern  battle  is  the  cold,  calculating  work  of 
science,  largely  shorn  of  the  human  element. 
Men  mechanically  load  and  unload  artillery, 
firing  in  cold  blood  without  enthusiasm,  even  with- 
out knowledge  of  results,  at  other  men  who  die 
without  knowledge  of  whence  came  the  fatal 
missiles.  The  rifle  has  become  about  as  useful 
as  a  toothpick ;  there  is  no  defence  against  shrap- 
nel ;  it  is  simply  a  case  of  whether  it  gets  you  or 
the  man  beside  you.  Rader  and  I  watched  this 
long-distance  slaughter  for  a  long,  long  time. 

"Well,  Phil,"  I  said,  "there's  your  battle  and 
it's  a  poor  sight.  We  can  now  go  back  to  Com- 
piegne,  or  go  ahead  and  get  jailed." 

"Oh,  don't  cry  before  you're  hurt.  Nobody's 
going  to  bother  us." 


198     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

"All  right;  but  remember,  I've  been  out 
front  before.     It's  up  to  you." 

On  we  went  along  that  road,  down  into  the 
meadow  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  burst- 
ing shells  among  the  first-line  reservists  —  how 
far  I  shall  never  know.  We  ran  at  once  into  the 
big  convoy  which  was  winding  serpentine  along 
the  road  for  miles.  Literally  hundreds  of  great 
autobusses  slipped  and  trundled  through  the 
heavy  slime  into  which  a  week's  rain  and  their 
incessant  passage  had  worked  the  roadway. 
Exhausts  open,  gears  shifting,  drivers  shouting, 
horsemen  dashing  back  and  forth  to  hasten  the 
great  centipede,  —  it  was  a  scene  of  wild  con- 
fusion. 

Bicycling  was  impossible  in  that  slime  and  walk- 
ing was  not  easy.  Several  times  we  were  forced 
off  the  road  to  let  a  double  line  of  convoys  pass ; 
once  we  went  out  into  a  field  when  a  detachment 
of  troops  was  added  to  the  confusion.  We  had 
gone  hardly  a  hundred  yards  when  a  mounted 
officer  slouched  up  through  the  mud  to  question 
us. 

"We're   gone,   Phil." 


Prisoner  Again  199 

The  officer  studied  our  American  passports 
most  methodically  and  then  looked  down  to  ask 
what  nationality  we  were.  With  a  few  more 
words   he  waved  us   on. 

"Well,  Phil,"  I  said,  "we're  by  this  time, 
but  they'll  get  us  yet." 

"Oh,  don't  cry  before  you're  hurt,"  ran  the 
familiar  reply. 

So  we  continued  to  slip  and  slide  our  way  along 
through  the  mire.  We  passed  an  infantry  divi- 
sion, guns  stacked,  waiting  for  strength  to  go  on, 
passed  another  division  being  driven  sheep-like 
to  the  slaughter ;  cavalry  standing  ready  beside 
their  mounts,  hundreds  of  other  men  standing 
about,  talking  and  yawning  and  with  their  fore- 
most idea  that  of  getting  a  smoke.  No  glory, 
no  tremendous  action,  no  wild  exultation  of 
battle. 

We  were  stopped  again.  This  time  it  took 
longer,  but  once  more  we  went  free.  Soon  we 
were  squarely  flush  with  the  bursting  shells.  A 
sign  said  it  was  twelve  miles  to  Compiegne 
whence  we  had  come.  At  this  spot  we  were 
held  up  a  third  time. 


200     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

"Phil,"  I  ventured,  "it's  getting  pretty  thick. 
We  don't  stand  a  chance  of  making  Soissons." 

"Oh,  don't  hunt  trouble  ;  we're  not  bitten  yet." 

On  we  went.  We  passed  a  short,  squat,  heavily 
eyebrowed  little  officer  who  looked  at  us  glower- 
ingly,  but  said  nothing.  To  my  amazement  we 
were  within  a  few  rods  of  the  end  of  that  long 
line  of  men.  It  seemed  as  if  we  were  going  to  get 
through  after  all,  but  suddenly  a  sharp  voice 
called  out.  We  turned  to  find  the  funny,  squat 
little  officer  after  us.  His  sword  and  medals 
dangled  pompously.  A  crowd  of  soldiers  at 
once  pressed  in. 

"Oh,  no,  you  can't  go  on  here.  You  must  go 
back  to  the  etat-major.  They  will  give  you  a 
proper  pass  ;    most  certainly  yes." 

"Phil,  I'm  fed  up  with  this,"  I  said.  "Just 
as  soon  as  we  walk  into  headquarters  we'll  be 
pinched." 

"Oh,  nonsense,"  came  the  reply.  "We've  set 
out  for  Soissons  and  we're  going  to  get  there. 
Don't  cry  before  you're  hurt." 

By  now  I  was  angered  all  the  way  through. 
It  occurred  to  me  that  Rader  was  very  pig-headed 


Prisoner  Again  201 

to  think  he   knew   more   about  being  out   front 
than  I. 

"All  right,"  I  replied.  "We'll  go  till  it's  you 
who's  doing  the  crying.  I  know  what  we're  in 
for  the  moment  we  see  the  etat-major.  You'll 
find  out." 

Nobody  seemed  to  know  where  headquarters 
were ;  nevertheless,  every  time  I  saw  an  officer's 
eye  light  on  us  I  immediately  forestalled  inquiries 
by  asking  directions.  We  slipped  and  slid  our 
way  back  till  a  sudden  downpour  overtook  us. 
Thereupon  we  took  shelter  in  a  little  roadside 
house  where  groups  of  cavalrymen  were  sitting 
about  nonchalantly  eating  a  late  lunch  or  play- 
ing cards,  just  as  if  their  fellow-countrymen  were 
not  going  down  like  flies  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away.  They  were  most  courteous  and  conducted 
us  to  an  open  window  whence  we  could  look  out 
at  the  breaking  shells,  now  showing  a  sullen  gray 
through  the  rain.  What  a  miserable  thing, 
indeed,  this  war ;  a  driving,  drenching  rain  filling 
the  trenches  knee-deep  ;  little  food  ;  no  smokes  ; 
death  from  an  unseen  source  flaming  from  above ; 
nothing  to  do  but  shiver  and  wonder  when  your 


202     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

turn  would  come.  So  it  was  for  400  miles,  from 
the  North   Sea  to  Switzerland. 

When  the  storm  passed  over,  we  went  forth 
once  again  on  the  still  more  slimy  roads.  By 
much  effort  we  located  the  etat-major  off  on  a 
side-road  and  presented  ourselves  to  one  of  a 
large  group  of  staff  officers,  standing  about  along 
the  roadway.  Briefly  I  told  him  who  we  were 
and  what  we  wanted.  Most  politely  he  invited 
us  to  enter  the  yard  of  a  pleasant  little  country 
house.  We  did,  just  as  the  fly  goes  into  the  spi- 
der's nest,  except  that  we  knew  better.  The 
gates  closed  behind  us.  For  the  third  time  I 
was  a  prisoner.  Decidedly  war  correspondence 
was  not  all  it  was  recommended  to  be. 

"Well,   Phil?"   I   asked. 

"Oh,  shut  up,"  he  replied.  "We've  got  our 
American  passports,  haven't  we?" 

Just  then  an  officer  told  us  to  enter  the  house. 
We  did  so  —  and  came  out  more  quickly  than  we 
had  gone  in.  Something  grabbed  me  by  the  arm, 
and  when  my  thinking  apparatus  got  going  again,  I 
found  myself  out  on  the  lawn  with  an  excited 
staff  officer  asking  if  I  didn't  know  better  than  to 


Prisoner  Again  203 

burst  into  a  staff  meeting.  It  seemed  that  when 
I  had  turned  to  the  right  after  entering  the  house, 
I  had  blundered  into  a  sorrowful  meeting  of  the 
General  and  staff  of  the  Fifth  Division  control- 
ling that  whole  section  of  the  Battle  of  the  Aisne, 
and  very  much  out  of  sorts  because  of  a  bad 
reverse. 

We  now  became  aware  of  the  importance  we 
had  gained  for  ourselves.  Our  officer  friend  sent 
over  a  gendarme  who  led  us  over  near  the  stable 
and  stationed  us  under  a  tree.  Immediately 
he  took  three  new  bronze  cartridges  out  of  his 
belt  and  loaded  his  ugly  stub  gun.  Pointedly 
he  drawled  : 

"One  for  you,  Monsieur,  one  for  your  friend, 
and  another  —  well,  I  might  miss." 

Comfortable  indeed  !  Things  were  getting  into 
their  stride.  To  make  it  more  home-like  the 
rain  started  up  again  and  big  cold  drops  splashed 
down  off  the  tree  on  to  us.  Rader  and  I  stood 
first  on  one  foot,  then  on  the  other  ;  talking  a  little, 
smoking  a  little,  wondering  a  lot.  For  some  rea- 
son the  General  happened  to  come  out,  and  when 
he   saw  us   talking  together,  he  went  off   like   a 


204    Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

bunch  of  firecrackers  till  I  thought  for  a  moment 
he  was  going  to  have  our  poor  guard  shot  for 
allowing  us  such  liberty.  Thereafter  Rader  and 
I  were  not  allowed  to  talk,  to  smoke,  hardly  to 
look  at  each  other.  Every  time  we  so  much  as 
changed  our  positions,  the  ugly  stub  of  our  guard's 
gun  took  on  a  very  business-like  air.  For  a 
solid  hour  we  stood  under  that  dripping  tree  till 
an  officer  came  out  to  find  out  all  about  us.  After 
hearing  my  really  incredible  story,  he  whipped 
his  fist  up  into  my  face,  put  his  nose  about  two 
inches  from  mine,  distorted  his  eyes  till  they 
seemed  ready  to  snap,  and  exclaimed  : 

"You're  an  Austrian." 

"No,  Monsieur,  I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  an 
American  —  an    American    newspaperman." 

What  a  fool  I  felt  denying  in  meek,  disingen- 
uous voice  that  I  was  not  an  Austrian,  but  only  a 
poor  dog  of  a  correspondent. 

Then,  dripping  with  rain  and  shivering  with 
cold,  they  led  me  into  the  General  Headquarters. 
There  three  of  them  took  me  into  a  side  room  for 
the  third  degree.  Found  on  the  firing-line  with 
no  papers   but   a   German   pass   to   Paris   and   a 


Prisoner  Again  205 

French  order  of  release  from  jail,  I  was  none  too 
cheerful. 

"Have  you  any  arms?"  they  asked  first. 

Instead,  they  received  a  baby  camera  which 
I  preferred  to  give  them  openly  than  have  them 
discover  themselves.  Their  eyes  fairly  popped 
with  surprise.  Cameras  are  not  popular  near  the 
front,   not  at  all. 

"What  else  have  you?"  they  asked. 

"A  German  pass  to  Paris,"  I  replied,  with  all 
the  honesty  and  guilelessness  borne  of  the  convic- 
tion that  they  would  surely  find  it  on  me  if  I  did 
not  show  it  to  them.  I  might  as  well  have 
exploded  a  bomb.  After  a  minute  examination 
they  rummaged  through  my  knapsack,  which 
yielded  three  maps.  It  made  no  difference  that 
one  was  of  France,  one  of  Belgium,  and  the  third 
of  Paris  ;  they  were  maps  just  the  same,  and  sus- 
picious characters  always  carry  maps. 

A  camera,  a  German  pass  to  Paris,  three  maps 
—  I  wonder  if  I  could  have  done  better  if  I  had 
deliberately  set  out  to  get  shot  ?  From  their 
expressions  I  doubt  it.  I  tried  to  relax  the  ten- 
sion by  handing  around  some  cigarettes ;    each  of 


206    Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

them  soberly  and  seriously  took  a  whole  package, 
a  whole  package  each,  and  then  glowered  even 
more  darkly. 

"Take  off  your  coat,"  they  ordered. 

I  removed  the  dripping  garment  while  they 
prodded  me  all  over  for  arms  or  secret  papers. 
For  half  an  hour  I  stood  there  in  my  shirt-sleeves 
(the  shirt  I  had  looted  at  Senlis,  incidentally), 
shivering  in  the  cold,  while  they  plied  me  with 
questions.  By  sheer  will-power  I  could  control 
the  chattering  of  my  teeth,  only  to  have  the 
shivers  run  through  some  other  part  of  me.  I 
am  sure  they  must  have  thought  I  was  having 
the  palsy  from  fear.  At  last  the  examination 
was  ended.  They  took  everything  I  had  but  the 
clothes  on  my  back;  then,  petrified  with  cold, 
they  led  me  back  to  the  tree  where  poor  Rader 
was  still  standing. 


X 

HOW  A   SPY  WOULD  FEEL 

"Well,"  he  grunted,  "I  thought  you  were 
full  of  lead  by  this  time." 

"Wait  till  you  get  yours,"  I  started  to  say, 
when  our  guard's  gun  got  business-like  again. 
It  was  still  raining  hard  and  by  now  pitch-black. 
Shortly  an  officer  came  out  and  had  us  led  over  to 
the  roadway.  The  place  was  all  abustle,  and  indi- 
cated plainly  that  the  General  Headquarters  were 
withdrawing  for  the  night.  Rader  and  I  were 
ranged  side  by  side,  our  bicycles  being  swallowed 
up  in  the  void.     A  very  busy  officer  said  to  me : 

"Your  left  arm,"  and  to  Rader,  "Your  right." 

We  held  them  out  —  click,  a  pair  of  handcuffs 
were  snapped  on.  No  word,  no  explanation ; 
the  officer  did  his  work  quickly,  nonchalantly, 
while  Rader  and  I  gaped  open-mouthed  and 
speechless  at  our  new  bond  of  union.  There 
was  only  three  feet  of  play  between  us. 

207 


208     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

Once  more  we  were  led  out  on  that  slimy  road. 
Behind  us  in  the  darkness  we  made  out  the  gray 
of  three  German  prisoners  similarly  handcuffed. 
Behind  them  in  turn  five  manacled  French  sol- 
diers, who  I  later  learned  were  being  disciplined 
for  drunkenness.  Gendarmes  with  loaded  guns 
completed  the  detachment,  a  motley  one  indeed, 
the  honor  of  leading  which  at  least  fell  to  Rader 
and  me. 

Handcuffed,  in  a  heavy  rain,  through  an  ink- 
black  night,  we  set  out  for  an  unknown  destina- 
tion. So  wet  were  the  roads  with  the  week's 
downpour,  so  slippery  from  the  passing  of  busses, 
wagons,  artillery,  cavalry,  and  infantry,  that  for 
every  three  feet  we  went  forward  we  seemed  to 
slide  back  two.  Rader  slipped  and  slid  along 
the  side  of  the  road  and  was  in  constant  danger 
of  falling  into  the  ditch  beside  him.  Every  time 
that  happened  the  chain  yanked  viciously  at  my 
arm  till  it  seemed  as  if  it  would  be  pulled  out  of 
the  socket.  The  road  lay  most  of  the  way  through 
the  forest  of  Compiegne  and  literally  was  so  black 
we  could  not  see  our  hands  at  arm's  length  or  the 
sky    overhead.     Meanwhile,    the    cold,    merciless 


How  a  Spy  would  Feel  209 

rain  soaked  through  the  heavy  foliage  and  chilled 
us  to  our  very  bones. 

At  times  came  eerie  sounds  of  life  from  some- 
where in  the  darkness  in  front.  Our  solitary 
horseman  picked  his  way  gingerly  ahead  till  he 
was  swallowed  up  in  the  blackness.  A  few  sombre 
words  of  challenge  and  answer  from  out  front,  and 
we  splashed  on  once  more  through  the  rain  and 
mud.  Always  it  was  a  supply  train,  a  small  detach- 
ment of  troops,  an  army  automobile,  and  once  an 
interminable  convoy  which  stopped  us.  The  magic 
word  "Prisonniers"  would  give  us  passage  and 
sometimes  cheap  sarcasm  and  jests.  Only  the  talk 
of  men,  the  light  of  a  cigarette,  or  the  movement 
of  horses  or  wagons  told  how  close  we  were  to  liv- 
ing things.  For  miles  while  we  were  passing  the 
convoy  I  walked  with  my  free  arm  before  my  face 
to  save  myself  in  case  anything  ran  into  me. 

"Well,  Phil,"  I  ventured,  "this  road  doesn't 
go  to  Soissons." 

"Oh,  shut  up,"  he  snapped  ;  "this  is  bad  enough 
without  making  it  worse." 

"Why,  we've  still  got  our  American  passports, 
haven't  we  ?" 


210     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

It  was  hours,  it  seemed  eternities,  before  we 
arrived,  exhausted  and  dripping,  at  a  desolate 
little  town  which  seemed  even  more  funereal 
than  the  forest  we  had  just  left.  The  occasional 
house  which  sent  us  a  warm,  cheery  light  through 
the  downpour  made  the  desolation  of  the  others 
stand  out  more  drear.  It  was  Pierrefonds,  my 
guard  told  me  (a  chance  cigarette  had  made  him 
friendly),  and  only  eight  kilometres  from  our 
starting-place.  Our  procession,  looking  neither 
to  right  nor  left,  marched  in  the  most  business-like 
manner  direct  to  the  mairie  or  town  hall,  where  we 
were  to  exist  till  daybreak. 

There  it  was  that  our  ugly  little  captain  first 
came  on  the  scene.  He  had  just  felled  to  the  floor 
one  of  the  French  prisoners  amid  a  torrent  of 
oaths  when  he  noticed  our  guard  piling  up  a  good 
bed  of  straw  for  Rader  and  me.  He  bristled  up 
and  shouted  : 

"They're  prisoners  just  like  the  rest  and  must 
get  no  better." 

Thereupon  he  saw  that  we  got  worse  and  went 
off  to  kick  the  man  he  had  previously  knocked 
down  —  why,  I  don't  know. 


How  a  Spy  would  Feel  211 

Rader  and  I  lay  down  on  part  of  the  thin  layer 
of  straw  which  covered  the  whole  floor.  I  had 
expected  they  would  remove  our  manacles,  but 
no  chance.  Every  time  in  our  sleeplessness  that 
either  forgot,  he  yanked  the  other  into  full  con- 
sciousness. Just  try  sleeping  sometime  with 
your  arm  tied  to  one  spot.  Chilled  through  with 
rain,  the  cold  of  the  damp  floor  seeping  up  through 
the  thin  straw,  with  no  covering  at  all,  my  mud- 
soaked  feet  feeling  as  though  they  were  incased 
in  ice,  I  remember  as  some  awful  nightmare  the 
snoring  gendarmes  beside  me,  the  closely  cropped 
pate  of  a  German  prisoner  beside  Rader,  the  yank- 
ing of  the  chain,  the  entry  of  some  peasant  women 
made  homeless  by  the  war,  and  the  vain  pounding 
of  others  who  sought  refuge  from  the  downpour 
outside.  Those  stolid  peasant  women  sitting 
silent  all  night  through  beside  the  dim  lan- 
tern with  their  shawls  wrapped  tightly  over  their 
heads  will  remain  as  long  as  I  live  a  memory  of 
what  the  great  God  of  War  does  to  the  little 
atoms  who  happen  to  be  in  his  path. 

Hopelessly  —  would  morning  ever  come  —  I 
watched   the   first   gray   of   another   rainy   dawn 


212     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

penetrate  our  jail  and  dim  the  flickering  lamps 
into  uselessness.  After  eternities  life  began  to 
stir  among  the  gendarmes.  The  peasant  women 
filed  silently,  fatalistically  out,  —  to  what,  I 
wondered  ?  For  another  hour,  there  was  brushing, 
brushing  of  coats,  trousers,  shoes,  till  at  last  the 
uniforms  were  spotlessly  clean  and  the  atmosphere 
choked  with  dust.  Through  the  window  we 
could  look  up  at  the  massive  walls  of  the  mag- 
nificent chateau  of  Pierrefonds,  which  I  had  always 
wanted  to  see,  but  which  I  little  expected  to  see 
from  jail. 

Finally  came  time  for  departure,  whither  we 
knew  not,  nor  cared.  Our  fat,  ugly  little  captain 
was  bustling,  sputtering  about  in  high  dudgeon. 
We  soon  saw  that  the  drunken  French  soldiers 
were  to  be  left  behind.  Then  our  manacles  were 
removed  and  we  were  able  to  forego  our  Siamese 
twin  relationship  to  resume  our  individual  lives 
once  more.  Our  bicycles,  too,  appeared  myste- 
riously from  somewhere.  Evidently  we  were  go- 
ing to  push  them.  Nor  did  it  matter  much  when 
one  of  the  gendarmes  conceived  the  ingenuous 
idea  of  letting  out  the  air  so  we  could  not  make  a 


How  a  Spy  would  Feel  213 

break  for  liberty.  Open  air,  exercise,  a  chance 
to  get  warm,  no  manacles,  surely  things  were 
looking  up  — 

Till  that  beastly  little  captain  came  fussing 
around.  Oh  no,  it  would  never  do  to  let  us  go 
unmanacled,  never,  we  must  be  shackled,  oh, 
Mon  Dieu,  yes.  I  submitted  resignedly,  for  by 
now  I  too  was  being  convinced  that  I  was  a  dan- 
gerous enemy  to  France.  But  then,  to  my  horror, 
as  a  grand  finale,  that  beastly  little  captain 
brought  up  one  of  the  German  prisoners  and 
hitched  him  to  the  other  end.  That  was  too 
much.  I  knew  what  it  would  mean  all  along  the 
way  for  a  civilian  to  be  tied  to  a  German  soldier ; 
the  explanation  was  obvious. 

"But,  Monsieur  le  capitaine,"  I  protested,  "we 
are  Americans.  This  is  not  just.  Also  it  is  not 
safe." 

Like  a  burst  of  fire-crackers  he  flew  into  a  rage. 

"Americans  !"  he  shouted.  "What  does  that 
matter  ?  Why  didn't  you  stay  at  home  ?  What 
business  have  you  over  here  ?  We  don't  want 
you  "...  and  so  forth  in  too  violent  pyro- 
technics for  my  limping  French  to  decipher. 


214     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

Fortunately,  I  imagine,  I  couldn't  remember 
a  single  phrase  of  French  adequate  to  express  my 
feelings. 

"Well,  anyway,"  laughed  Rader,  with  the  first 
humor  he  had  shown  for  some  time:  "I'm  tied 
to  a  real  man  at  least." 

So,  powerless,  we  set  out,  pushing  our  flat- 
tired  bicycles  with  our  right  hands,  manacled 
each  to  a  German  prisoner  with  our  left,  and 
guarded  by  two  mounted  gendarmes.  It  was 
dark  and  lowering  as  it  had  been  during  all  those 
ten  fearful  days  of  battle,  but  hardly  had  we  got 
under  way  when  it  opened  up  in  torrents.  Our 
still  wet  clothing  became  wetter  still,  and  it  was 
a  long  time  before  we  could  drive  any  warmth  into 
our  shivering  bodies.  Mile  after  mile  we  strug- 
gled along  till  I  began  to  wonder  if  we  were  going 
all  the  way  to  Paris. 

Everywhere  we  found  evidences  of  a  consum- 
ing anger  towards  the  Germans  and  of  the  esti- 
mate of  two  civilians  handcuffed  to  German 
prisoners.  Peasant  folk  whose  houses  had  been 
ransacked  and  emptied  by  the  Prussians  on 
their   march    to   victory   only   two  weeks   before 


How  a  Spy  would  Feel  215 

saw  our  companions  return  as  prisoners  with 
a  silence  which  was  only  too  eloquent.  Sadly, 
bitterly,  with  a  burning  hatred  in  their  expres- 
sions, they  came  to  their  gates  to  watch  us  go 
by. 

Once,  nearly  exhausted,  we  asked  our  guards 
for  water.  We  were  just  then  approaching  a 
little  peasant  house  with  a  woman  standing  at 
her  doorway. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  she  replied  to  our  guard, 
"there's  plenty  for  you,  but  for  the  prisoners, 
none." 

She  stood  stiff  and  defiant  before  her  squalid 
little  home.  Her  eyes  were  piteously  cold  and 
her  whole  body  was  restrained  as  though  dis- 
daining to  crush  us  with  the  punishment  we 
deserved.  An  intensity  of  hatred  such  as  I 
never  dreamed  could  exist  seemed  to  flow  out 
against  us  from  her  stolid  features. 

"But,"  replied  the  guard,  "it  is  for  them  that 
I  want  it." 

"Not  a  drop,"  she  replied  in  icy  tones.  "Not 
a  drop.  Let  them  suffer.  It  will  do  them  good. 
They  can  die  of  thirst  for  all  I  care." 


216     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

"But,  Madame,"  our  guard  insisted  firmly  but 
gently,  "they  are  our  prisoners.  We  must  be 
human.     They  have  walked  far  to-day." 

"What  do  I  care  ?"  she  retorted  in  rising  anger. 
"Did  they  think  of  us  when  they  came  here? 
Did  they  bother  about  our  suffering?  Look  at 
my  house,  everything  ruined,  stolen,  smashed. 
May  God  curse  them.  They'll  die  before  they 
get  water  here,  the  beasts  !" 

Her  anger  was  now  red-hot. 

"But,"  again  remonstrated  the  guard,  "they 
are  our  prisoners.  We  are  French.  We  must  be 
humanitarian,   even   to  them." 

"Humanitarian,  ha-ha,"  she  echoed  the  word 
with  a  terrible  hollowness.  "It  will  do  them 
good  to  suffer.  Where,  I  ask  you,  is  my  hus- 
band ?  What  has  happened  to  my  three  sons  ? 
Who  is  going  to  get  in  the  harvest  ?  Who  will 
restore  my  home  ?  Give  them  water  ?  Ha-ha, 
Mon  Dieu,  never  !  There  is  plenty  where  they 
came  from." 

Her  voiced  mounted  in  a  crescendo.  The 
hatred  of  her  whole  soul  was  in  her  eyes.  Her 
arms    and    hands    seemed   to   crave   action.     She 


How  a  Spy  would  Feel  217 

might  have  been  a  lioness  about  to  spring.  The 
guard  dismounted. 

"Madame"  —  it  was  an  order  delivered  with 
crushing  dignity  —  "Madame,  I  command  you 
to  bring  these  prisoners  water." 

A  flash  of  burning  anger  shot  from  her  black 
eyes.  Her  frame  stiffened.  All  the  horror  and 
disgust  which  only  a  woman  can  feel  to  the  limit 
surged  out  from  her  in  revolt. 

But  she  met  only  the  cold,  stern  eye  of  the 
guard.  Slowly  her  whole  being  began  to  subside. 
It  was  like  a  brilliant  flame  gradually  dying  out. 
Somehow  I  could  not  but  pity  her  in  her  acquies- 
cence to  the  helplessness  of  her  situation.  Surely 
it  was  another  case  of  where  women  have  to  suffer, 
uncomplaining.     Slowly  she  turned  and  was  gone. 

"The  women  take  it  pretty  hard,"  our  guard 
remarked.     "I  guess  they  suffer  too." 

Shortly  she  returned  and  held  out  the  water 
from  a  distance  as  though  not  to  be  contami- 
nated. In  very  shame  I  told  her  that  I  was  an 
American.  She  did  not,  could  not,  comprehend ; 
the  connection  between  the  German  and  myself 
was  far  too  close. 


218     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

Silence  hung  heavy  over  our  little  party  as  we 
plodded  on  through  the  rain.  Each  deserted 
little  village  we  came  to  I  thought  was  our  last, 
only  to  find  we  were  to  go  through  and  out  the 
other  side.  The  poor  chap  I  was  manacled  to 
was  a  simple  soul,  one  of  the  great  peasant  mass 
which  gives  the  German  army  its  strength.  By 
tremendous  effort  and  considerable  linguistic 
ingenuity  we  talked  for  a  while  of  the  great 
war. 

"The  Kaiser,"  he  said  with  soul-felt  fervor, 
"is  the  greatest  man  in  history,  the  saviour  of 
Germany  from  the  base  intrigues  of  France, 
Russia,  and  England.  He  would  do  anything  for 
his  men,  just  as  we  would  do  anything  for 
him.  The  war  is  the  greatest  war  of  self-defence 
in  history,  a  war  against  the  greed,  jealousy,  and 
revengefulness  of  the  Allies." 

So  well  indeed  had  he  learned  his  lesson.  What 
puppets,  I  thought,  men  are  !  How  easily  are 
their  minds  mesmerized  by  nationality,  by  leaders 
of  their  own  blood  !  It  was  the  same  rote,  the 
same  mechanical  logic  as  among  the  French  and 
English. 


How  a  Spy  would  Feel  219 


a 


;Mein  frau,"  broke  off  the  German,  "mein 
frau,"  and  he  fell  back  into  the  real  spirit  of  the 
man.  Would  I  send  word  to  her,  just  say  he  was 
alive?  Yes,  he  had  three  "kinder."  Would  I 
really  take  her  name  and  address  and  send  her 
word  ?  The  war  might  last  a  long  time ;  he 
would  be  a  prisoner  all  that  period ;  his  wife 
would  not  know  what  had  happened  to  him ; 
oh,  it  would  be  so  kind  if  I  would  send  her  word. 
Poor  chap,  in  the  rush  which  followed  the  chance 
was  lost. 

After  eighteen  kilometres,  practically  without 
stopping,  we  saw  ahead  of  us  the  roofs  of  a  good- 
sized  town.  Our  guard  said  it  was  Villers- 
Cotterets,  headquarters  of  the  Fifth  Army  Divi- 
sion who  had  caught  us  on  the  Aisne.  Running 
far  out  into  the  country,  we  encountered  a 
long  convoy  resting  for  lunch,  with  hundreds 
of  soldiers  standing  about  and  horses  feeding 
near  by.  Hardly  a  man  of  that  big  crowd  but 
flocked  to  the  roadside  to  see  us  pass.  Almost 
immediately  we  were  marching  through  a  double 
line  of  soldiers  holding  all  the  way  to  the  town 
itself. 


220     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

"Espion,  espion,"  they  shouted  at  us.  Rader 
and  I  in  our  civilian  clothes  were  the  cynosure 
of  all  eyes.     "Les  Boches"  were  almost  forgotten. 

"Kill  the  dirty  beasts,"  "you'll  get  what's 
coming  to  you"  —  etc. 

Several  men  slashed  their  fingers  across  their 
throats,  making  a  long  rasping  noise  at  the  same 
time  and  then  holding  their  noses  with  one  hand 
and  gesticulating  at  us  with  the  other.  Another 
pointed  a  long,  villainous-looking  knife  at  his 
stomach  and  then  began  to  laugh  in  wild  glee. 
Many  were  silent;  many  laughed;  many  made 
either  joking  or  insulting  remarks. 

It  was  like  sitting  on  gunpowder.  I  never  felt 
sure  but  that  someone  would  set  a  spark  to  the 
mob  spirit,  causing  the  hatred  underlying  that 
whole  attitude  to  burst  into  flame.  Handcuffed, 
with  only  two  guards,  we  stood  no  chance  at  all. 
To  be  sure,  I  marched  with  as  much  assurance  and 
with  my  head  as  high  as  I  possibly  could,  and 
yet  even  at  that  I  am  afraid  my  eagle-scream  was 
but  a  feeble  peep.     I  was  badly  frightened. 

At  last  we  arrived  at  the  village  itself.  There 
an   even   worse   reception   greeted   us.     Civilians 


How  a  Spy  would  Feel  221 

who  had  lost  their  all  during  the  German  occupa- 
tion proved  much  more  vicious  than  soldiers  who 
had  had  the  chance  somewhat  to  relieve  their 
feelings  in  actual  battle.  Fortunately  I  did  not 
understand  much  of  what  was  said,  while  my 
companions  understood  only  the  all-too-eloquent 
signs.  Finally  when  it  seemed  we  would  never 
reach  the  end  of  that  jeering,  insulting  crowd, 
when,  hungry,  thirsty,  exhausted  by  lack  of  sleep 
and  an  eleven-mile  march  under  manacles,  chilled 
to  the  bone  by  rain  and  dripping  clothes,  it 
seemed  we  could  go  no  farther,  we  arrived  at  the 
proverbial  mairie.  To  our  surprise  we  were  un- 
shackled and  the  Germans  rushed  off  elsewhere, 
so  quickly  we  could  not  learn  the  addresses  of 
their  wives. 

Rader  and  I  were  yanked  off  to  headquarters. 
Down  that  same  street  by  which  we  had  entered 
we  now  passed  unmanacled,  but  to  my  disgust 
most  of  the  jeerers  were  in  at  lunch.  A  splendid 
old  mansion  served  as  the  permanent  home  of  our 
General  and  his  staff,  who  went  back  and  forth 
each  day  to  field  headquarters  on  the  Aisne. 
Rader  and  I  were  led  into  the  back-yard  to  the 


222     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

stable.  He  was  put  in  a  horse-stall  and  I  in  an 
olcTtool-house.  There  at  last  we  came  to  rest  to 
wait  the  next  act. 

The  place  I  was  in  was  crammed  to  the  door 
with  old  furnishings.  A  time-honored  couch 
with  stiff  hair  bursting  out  in  several  places  was 
backed  up  against  one  wall,  and  a  small  table 
and  collection  of  tools  occupied  the  other.  By 
good  fortune  I  found  a  thin  white  blanket  with 
a  doubtful  past  and  many  holes,  which  served 
to  wrap  about  my  drenched  person.  There  was 
no  room  to  walk  in,  so  for  three  hours  I  sat  on  the 
table  in  the  darkness  of  my  cold  jail,  my  blanket 
wrapped  about  me,  looking  for  all  the  world  like 
a  Buddha,  and  meditating  on  what  a  fool  I  had 
been  not  to  have  followed  the  advice  of  the  gen- 
darme captain  and  stayed  at  home. 

Fortunately  two  Irish  and  a  Scotch  Tommie, 
who,  separated  from  their  regiment,  were  virtu- 
ally prisoners  too,  not  only  relieved  our  guards' 
suspicions  and  our  own  weariness,  but  more 
important  still,  brought  us  supper.  Long  after 
dark  I  was  led  over  to  the  splendid  stall-jail 
occupied   by   Rader.     By   now,   we   had   learned 


How  a  Spy  would  Feel  223 

what  "hit  the  hay"  means  and  we  lost  no  time 
in  doing  it.  At  last  we  had  enough  to  get  decently 
warm  and  were  able  to  dry  our  clothes  and  thaw 
out  a  bit. 

A  sick  Moroccan,  who  showed  almost  no  signs 
of  life,  moaned  occasionally  in  the  straw  beside 
me ;  and  in  the  middle  of  the  night  a  fool  French 
soldier  lay  down  at  our  feet.  I  found  him  very 
useful  to  warm  my  toes  under,  till  suddenly  Rader 
lengthened  out  and  brought  his  shoe  with  a  crash 
like  the  falling  of  a  heavy  cocoanut  against  the 
Frenchman's  skull.  Wildly  the  poor  victim 
jumped  to  his  feet  like  a  jack-in-the-box,  and  for 
several  minutes  flung  himself  around  pinwheel- 
fashion,  shouting  his  head  off  over  our  prostrate, 
semi-conscious  forms  till  the  whole  building  was 
awake.     Then  he  left. 

That  next  day  was  awful.  Never  had  I  known 
the  insanity  of  solitary  confinement.  Immedi- 
ately after  a  sunrise  breakfast  we  were  separated, 
and  I  was  sent  back  to  my  Buddha's  throne. 
Nothing  to  read,  nothing  to  do,  not  even  chance 
to  join  in  a  game  of  pitch-pennies  among  the  sol- 
diers outside.     The  dull  rumble  of  the  battle  of  the 


224     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

Aisne  continued  to  come  to  us,  and  occasionally  a 
French  aeroplane  whirred  overhead.  Along  in  the 
middle  of  the  morning  Rader's  face  appeared 
around  the  corner. 

"Hey,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  crazy.  Why 
don't  you  telegraph  Ambassador  Herrick?" 

"Why,  we've  still  got  our  passports,  haven't 
we  ?"  I  laughed. 

"Oh,  cut  it,  I'm  sick  of  this.  Wire  the  Ambas- 
sador." 

"But,  Phil,"  I  teased,  "how  about  Soissons?" 

"Shut  up,  for  Heaven's  sake,  I  didn't  suppose 
we'd  get  into  all  this  stew.  If  you  don't  wire 
Herrick,  I  will." 

"You  can't,"  I  replied.  "You  don't  know 
French." 

"Oh,  hell,  that's  what  you  always  say.  I 
haven't  got  a  chance.  I  hate  this  beastly  coun- 
try. Get  me  out  of  this  and  I'll  take  your  word 
for  anything." 

"  All  right,"  I  said.  "  Wait  a  minute.  I'm  going 
nuts  too." 

But  my  plan  was  not  to  wire  the  Ambassador. 
We  had  deliberately  gotten  ourselves    into    this 


How  a  Spy  would  Feel  225 

trouble  and  had  no  right  to  call  upon  the  Ambas- 
sador to  get  us  out  of  it. 

I  asked  my  guard  to  take  me  to  the  Captain  of 
the  day.  To  my  surprise  he  did  so  without  ques- 
tion. 

"Where  did  you  come  from?"  the  Captain 
burst  out.  "Where  are  you  staying?  What  are 
you  doing  here  ?" 

Briefly  I  told  him  I  was  nothing  but  a  poor  dog 
of  a  newspaperman,  that  I  was  tired  of  living  half- 
fed,  soaked,  and  manacled,  in  straw  and  horse- 
stalls,  and  that  my  greatest  ambition  in  life  was 
to  get  back  to  Paris.  Naturally  I  did  not  bother 
to  burden  him  with  the  fact  that  I  had  been  caught 
by  the  staff  officers  abreast  the  Aisne.  He  set 
himself  with  vim  to  clear  up  the  mystery.  The 
General  and  his  staff*  had  gone  back  to  the  front. 
The  gendarmes  who  had  brought  us  had  returned 
to  Pierrefonds.  The  guards  who  had  first  received 
us  had  been  shifted  and  sent  to  the  firing-line  that 
very  morning  at  6.30.  No  written  record  could 
be  found. 

The  Captain  decided  he  would  let  us  go.  There 
was  neither  rime  nor  reason  to  it,  merely  a  shrug 

Q 


226     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

of  the  shoulders.  To  my  amazement  they  gave 
us  back  both  camera  and  bicycles.  I  pleaded  for  a 
pass  which  he  said  was  unnecessary.  Every  time 
I  had  heard  that  before,  I  told  him,  I  had  wound 
up  in  jail  a  few  hours  after  and  I  did  not  at  this 
time  want  to  do  any  more  first-hand  investigating 
of  French  prison  life.  An  English  high-daddy 
standing  near  by  interjected  the  cheerful  news 
that  he  would  have  put  us  in  a  fortress  till  the 
end  of  the  war  if  he  had  caught  us. 

"That  is  exactly  why  we  avoided  the  English," 
I  retorted,  as  the  Captain  handed  me  our  pass. 

Believe  me,  we  lost  no  time  in  getting  back  to 
Paris.  A  long  bicycle  ride  took  us  to  Crepy,  where 
we  entrained  for  the  capital. 

"Well,"  said  Phil,  "I  guess  there  are  some  things 
about  American  passports,  Soissons,  and  French 
jails  that  I  did  not  know.  Never  again,  believe 
me. 


VILLE    DE    VILLERS-COTTERETS 


Laisse^  passer  fjtf..%.   '/i/Zuiy  f'l ye ?/,£■/- _.-%>■-■*„? 

Oil    '■<-/      ^//t^Ucszi-n-t 

demeurant  a  VILLERS-COTTERETS. 


vqyageant  :  a  pied,   en    voilure,  en  bicyclette,  en 
chemin  defer  ou  en  automobile 


el 


se  rendant  a    ^C£^/</   pta<r- S^CtPttOt! 


*-Cotter6ts,  le      22  SEP  1914      1914 


=>§ 


..  m,  £z&    oV    4T  LE  Maire- 


M.  Arthur  Sweetser  living  at  Villers-Cotterets  "  is  freed 
once  more  to  go  to  Paris. 


XI 

FROM  FRANCE'S   CALMNESS  TO  BEL- 
GIUM'S AGONY 

Paris  now  was  a  new  city,  tried,  tested,  and 
proved.  The  life  and  gayety  were  fast  returning. 
The  crowds  which  had  fled  in  panic  on  the  German 
approach  were  flowing  back  like  a  molten  stream, 
pouring  over  the  boulevards  and  into  the  side- 
streets.  The  barren,  lifeless,  deserted  Paris, 
which,  when  I  had  left  for  the  front  two  weeks  ago, 
had  lain  sad  as  a  sepulchre  with  the  Germans  but 
twenty  miles  out,  had  again  become  the  city  of 
crowds  and  excitement  now  that  the  apparently 
invincible  "barbares"  had  been  crumpled  back 
to  the  Aisne.  Such  is  the  lightness  of  heart  of  the 
Parisian. 

Yet  there  was  a  difference.  The  Parisian  was 
not  the  same  as  of  old.  The  horror  of  those  two 
weeks,  the  presence  of  the  German  military  ma- 
chine in  the  suburbs  of  the  city  itself,  had  sobered 

227 


228     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

and  subdued  the  people.  Not  a  man  but  realized 
that  the  German  coup  had  all  but  come  off;  not 
a  man  but  now  knew  the  battle  was  but  half  won. 
No  one  believed  the  mighty  Prussian  could  break 
the  bonds  fast  closing  about  him  ;  nevertheless 
no  one  forgot  that  1,000,000  "Boches"  still  be- 
fouled the  fair  land  of  France. 

Panic  had  disappeared.  The  dread  of  annihila- 
tion had  passed.  The  people  had  seen  the  army 
brought  together,  had  seen  it  stand  firm  in  its  last 
trenches,  had  seen  it  blaze  forth  triumphant.  The 
dawn  of  a  new  day,  the  recrudescence  of  France's 
national  glory,  the  wiping  out  of  the  smirch  of  '70, 
were  hailed  on  all  sides.  It  was  a  new  France  that 
arose  in  the  trail  of  von  Kluck's  retreat,  for  the 
scars  of  '70  and  the  chains  of  forty  years  of  bond- 
age were  tossed  off  in  one  mighty  moral  struggle. 
The  nightmare  of  the  half-century  since  that  igno- 
minious defeat  was  dissolving  in  the  dream  of  a 
new  and  better  day  than  France  had  ever  known. 

There  was,  however,  no  wild,  unseemly  exuber- 
ance of  spirit.  The  Germans'  narrow  miss,  set 
in  the  background  of  an  unforgettable  Sedan,, 
made  that  impossible.     France  had  something  of 


France's  Calmness  and  Belgium's  Agony    229 

the  air  of  a  bull-dog  which  after  much  effort  has 
finally  got  his  teeth  hard  set  in  the  vitals  of  an 
inveterate  opponent.  There  was  to  be  no  relin- 
quishing, no  letting  up.  Already  winter  supplies 
were  being  gathered  together.  Women  all  over 
the  country  were  knitting  socks  and  clothing. 

The  patience  of  the  people  was  marvellous.  Still 
only  the  most  meagre  and  colorless  news  escaped 
the  censor.  For  eighteen  days  the  Titanic  struggle 
of  the  Aisne  had  been  on,  and  yet  it  was  difficult  to 
piece  together  even  the  rough  outlines  of  the  battle- 
front.  The  war  was  one  carried  on  in  grim, 
deathly  silence,  and  to  the  everlasting  honor  of 
France  be  it  said  that  this  nervous  people  waited 
patiently,  uncomplainingly.  There  was  but  one 
protest  and  that  the  pitifully  human  one  against 
interminable  delays  in  getting  letters  to  and  from 
"nos  petits"  at  the  front.  Some  of  the  troops 
were  known  to  have  been  under  constant  fire 
for  four  and  five  weeks,  many  of  them  un- 
doubtedly being  prayed  for  weeks  after  they  had 
been  cast  into  an  unmarked  grave. 

Never  has  there  been  such  a  press  campaign  of 
bitterness    and    hatred.     Never    was    nation    so 


230     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

fiercely  condemned  as  the  German.  "The  sackers 
of  Rheims  and  Louvain,"  "murderers  of  women 
and  children,"  were  execrated  with  a  fierce,  unpar- 
alleled fury.  With  all  the  force  of  inherent  skill 
fanned  to  genius  by  the  passions  of  war,  the 
French  writers  wrote  and  rewrote  Belgium, 
Rheims,  Louvain,  till  they  were  fairly  glutted  with 
tales  of  barbarity,  cruelty,  and  bestiality.  The 
German  was  represented  as  an  unclean  beast, 
aiming  at  the  complete  annihilation  of  everything 
French,  from  the  superior  civilization  of  to-day, 
which  he  had  vainly  tried  to  steal  to  the  very 
soul  of  France  as  manifested  in  Rheims  and  the 
like. 

To  me  this  was  one  of  the  most  sickening  sides 
of  the  war.  To  see  a  huge  nation  of  45,000,000 
people  feeding  its  soul  on  the  most  extreme 
unreasoned  hatred  was  positively  nauseating. 
The  passions  and  anger  then  being  burned  into 
every  Frenchman's  soul  will  survive  this  generation 
and  the  next,  will  cast  a  fiendish  laugh  at  interna- 
tional comity,  the  brotherhood  of  man,  and  the 
Hague.  Frenchmen  will  get  for  years  with  the 
milk  from  their  mothers'  breasts  the  conviction 


France's  Calmness  and  Belgium's  Agony     231 

that  the  nation  to  the  east  of  them  is  a  nation  of 
beasts  and  vipers. 

Italy  too  was  a  centre  of  attack.  It  was  not 
enough  that  she  did  not  hold  to  her  alliance  with 
Austria  and  Germany ;  that  she  allowed  France  to 
withdraw  her  troops  from  the  southern  frontier; 
no,  she  must  now  knife  her  former  ally  in  the  back ; 
hurl  her  2,000,000  soldiers  against  Austria.  The 
Latin  brotherhood,  the  centuries-old  Austrian 
conflict,  the  prize  of  a  reunited  Trieste  were  urged 
and  reurged. 

The  United  States,  as  in  England,  was  being 
most  jealously  watched.  Tremendous  capital 
was  made  of  American  editorials  favorable  to  the 
Allies  and  of  the  horror  expressed  at  the  destruc- 
tion of  Louvain  and  Rheims.  Our  spiritual  alli- 
ance was  accepted  as  complete.  Things  English 
had  become  even  more  wildly  popular  than  on  my 
first  visit.  Even  the  unnatural  marriage  de  con- 
venance  with  Russia  was  extremely  popular; 
glorious  Russian  victories  were  chronicled,  and 
people  commonly  felt  that  if  France  herself  could 
not  pull  victory  out  of  the  fire,  Russia's  hordes 
would   at  last   send  the   Kaiser  tumbling  to  his 


232     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

knees.  Servia  was  followed  closely  but  with  less 
enthusiasm  than  deserved,  while  Japan,  niching 
like  a  ghoul  from  a  dead  man's  body,  was  hardly 
mentioned. 

All  this  was  interesting,  tremendously  so,  but 
none  the  less  pale  and  dim  in  comparison  with  the 
big  events  outside.  The  deadlock  along  the  Aisne 
continued ;  the  Germans  were  just  uncovering 
their  incidental  side-attack  to  clean  up  Antwerp. 
A  few  days'  rest  in  Paris  had  put  lots  of  enthusiasm 
back  in  me,  and  I  decided  that  as  I  must  soon  be 
returning  to  the  United  States  I  would  cross  over 
to  England  via  Belgium.  At  least  I  might  learn 
something  first  hand  of  the  never  ending  atrocity 
stories,  and  perhaps  have  a  chance  to  see  the  siege 
of  Antwerp. 

Fate  decreed  that  my  route  should  lie  through 
Lille.  It  was  now  five  weeks  since  my  first  trip 
there,  and  it  was  with  deep  foreboding  that  I  set 
out  to  repeat  it.  I  could  not  help  thinking  on 
saying  good-by  to  Paris  for  the  third  time  that 
at  least  I  might  run  into  a  new  kind  of  jail  in 
Belgium.     Somehow   too,  deep  down  within  me, 


France'* s  Calmness  and  Belgium's  Agony     233 

I  hoped  that  things  would  now  be  better.  The 
first  time  I  went  out  the  thin  little  wedge  of  British 
soldiers  who  had  been  hurled  to  the  Belgian  border 
to  make  a  screen  for  the  French  mobilization  was 
being  smashed  to  pieces  on  the  Cateau-Cambrai 
line.  The  German  avalanche  was  sweeping  on  in 
the  flush  of  a  wild  excitement  and  all  France  seemed 
doomed.  But  now,  since  that  time  five  weeks  ago, 
the  German  bolt  had  been  spent ;  the  two  armies 
had  settled  down  to  a  mole-like  warfare;  panic 
had  given  way  to  dogged  determination. 

In  an  incredibly  short  time  our  train  passed  out 
from  life  into  desolation.  The  military  activity 
about  Paris,  the  barbed-wire  entanglements,  herds 
of  cattle,  and  lines  of  guards  faded  away  as  in  a 
dream  as  we  entered  the  No  Man's  land  over  which 
the  battle  had  ebbed  and  flowed.  Deserted  villages, 
abandoned  farm-houses,  miles  and  miles  of  heavy 
harvest  sighing  for  the  hand  that  would  not  reap, 
—  all  this  over  and  over  again  as  if  stretching  out 
into  eternity.  Occasionally  we  passed  a  lonely 
railroad  guard  who  looked  wistfully  towards  us  as 
we  rattled  by,  or  a  few  last  refugees  trudging  along 
the  road  with  their  pathetic  bundles.     Once  in  a 


234     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

while,  too,  a  clumsy  supply  train  could  be  seen 
lumbering  slowly  along  or  an  aeroplane  circling 
overhead  in  big  sweeps  through  the  sky,  to  show 
us  the  awful  work  was  still  going  on  out  front. 
Otherwise  the  country  had  been  left  to  bird,  beast, 
and  field. 

What  a  change  from  five  weeks  ago  !  Then  we 
had  hitched  and  shunted  our  way  through  a  seeth- 
ing medley  of  troops  and  ammunition  trains,  men 
shouting  and  calling,  engines  tooting,  the  grumble 
of  heavy  cannon  in  our  ears.  Just  south  of 
Marcoing  we  had  been  sidetracked  while  a  huge 
army  ebbed  and  flowed  before  us,  and  then  after 
hours  of  waiting  had  turned  around  and  fled  before 
the  advancing  Germans  in  a  wide  sweep  to  Amiens. 
Everything  was  a  seething,  bubbling  mass  of 
uproar  and  confusion. 

But  now  —  silence,  drear,  pitiful  silence.  What 
had  happened  to  that  flood  of  humanity  ?  And 
what  was  now  happening  to  us  ?  Our  train  was 
barely  moving ;  we  were  picking  our  way  cau- 
tiously over  bridge  after  bridge  which  had  been 
blown  up  and  hastily  rebuilt  with  heavy  planks  ; 
evidently  we  were  coming  to  a  city.     When  one 


France'' s  Calmness  and  Belgium's  Agony     235 

leaves  Paris  nowadays,  it  is  indeed  like  shooting 
off  into  the  blue.  When  and  where  you  will  arrive 
is  entirely  beyond  the  point. 

Someone  said  it  was  Amiens,  that  we  were  the 
first  passenger  train  to  enter  since  the  Germans  had 
evacuated  the  city  a  few  days  before.  I  wondered 
what  the  place  would  be  like.  Before,  we  had 
arrived  at  midnight.  Train  after  train  in  long, 
unending  stream  had  ground  in  and  out.  Head- 
lights had  flashed,  engines  tooted,  horses  neighed 
and  stamped  in  their  rickety  stalls,  and  hundreds 
of  refugees  walked  aimlessly  about  or  tried  to 
sleep  on  the  platforms.  Crowds  had  cheered 
madly  as  French  and  English  poured  out  for  the 
front,  and  then  as  quickly  melted  into  sympathy 
as  the  wounded  and  dying  came  back  in  train- 
loads. 

But  now  —  absolute,  total  desertion  hung  like 
a  pall  over  the  big,  high-roofed  structure  and 
interlaced  tracks.  Not  a  person  was  to  be  seen, 
not  a  sound  heard.  The  big  iron  girders  above 
and  the  empty  tracks  before  us  yawned  as  if  in 
mockery  of  the  life  that  had  gone.  Gingerly  I 
made    for    the    restaurant.     It   was    locked    and 


236     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

barred  ;  a  man  dozing  on  a  chair  outside  woke 
up  long  enough  to  remark  laconically : 

"Nothing  for  civilians." 

The  station  with  its  contrast  in  memory  was  one 
of  the  most  morbid  places  I  have  ever  been  in. 
We  could  not  leave  it  too  quickly.  Hours  more 
we  rode  on,  Heaven  knows  where,  till  at  last  we 
found  ourselves  way  out  at  Boulogne  on  the  sea- 
coast,  exactly  at  right  angles  to  Lille.  From 
there  we  trundled  on  to  Calais,  where  at  nine 
o'clock  I  was  at  last  able  to  get  something  to  eat, 
two  poor  sandwiches  and  some  beer.  There  we 
turned  inland  again,  and  finally  brought  up  at 
Lille  at  1 1  o'clock.  It  had  taken  thirteen  hours  for 
a  four-hour  run,  but  I  could  not  find  it  in  me  to 
complain,  for  on  the  first  trip  we  had  taken 
twenty-four  hours  and  had  then  wound  up,  not 
at  Lille,  but  at  Hazebrouck,  twenty-five  kilo- 
metres away. 

A  crowd  of  refugees  hung  about  the  station  with 
nothing  to  do,  nowhere  to  go,  nothing  to  think  of 
but  the  dreaded  Germans.  The  city  had  been 
rasped  to  a  frazzle  by  the  continual  threat  of 
occupation  by  the  enemy  ;  for,  in  all  the  long  time 


SUPREME    APPPEL 
a   la  Population  Lilloise 


Dans  le  cas  nil  <les  cavaliers  aliemands,  quelque  rdduil  qu'eii 
soil  leur  noinbre,  rcraienl  une  incursion  sur  le  lerritoire  de 
notre  Villc,  nons  rappelons  qu'aucun  civil  n'a  le  droil  de  leur 
adresser  aucune  injure  ni  provocation  *>us  peine  de  fournir 
mi  prclexte  a  des  represailles  sanglantes.  Les  lois  de  hi  guerre 
soul  formelles  a  eel  egard. 

I  ne  fois  de  plus,  nous  vous  supplions  de  rentier  chcz  vous 
el  de  garde'r   votre  sang-froid  ! 

\leliie/-Mnis  des  ji^cnts  provocateurs. 

Chartes\DELESALLE,  Ch.   DEBIERRE, 

'';.     N^'"  si, u, 

M.  GHESQUIERE, 


o:  Delory, 

Depute 
SAINT-VENANT, 

Conseiller  General 


Deput, 

PICA  VET, 

Conseiller  d'Arrondissemenl 


"  For  five  weeks  Lille  had  been  rasped  to  a  frazzle." 
See  opposite  page. 


France's  Calmness  and  Belgium'' s  Agony     237 

I  had  been  gone,  the  Germans  had  been  in  heavy 
force  just  outside  and  had  once  sent  in  a  squad  of 
Uhlans.  Even  as  I  entered,  I  read  on  all  the  walls 
official  proclamations  just  posted  by  the  Mayor 
that  the  formal  surrender  of  the  city  was  imminent. 

One  of  those  which  seemed  to  be  most  universal 
I  was  able  to  detach  from  an  official  bulletin 
board  at  considerable  risk.  It  is  reproduced  on  the 
opposite  page,  and  may  be  translated  as  follows  : 

"Supreme  appeal  to  the  population  of  Lille! 
In  case  German  horsemen,  however  small  their 
numbers,  make  an  incursion  into  our  city,  we  call 
attention  to  the  fact  that  no  civilian  has  the  right 
to  do  them  any  injury  or  give  them  any  provoca- 
tion under  pain  of  furnishing  a  pretext  for  bloody 
reprisals.    The  laws  of  war  are  strict  in  this  matter. 

"Once  more,  we  beg  you  to  keep  to  your 
homes  and  preserve  your  sang-froid.  Distrust 
provocateurs." 

The  next  day,  it  seemed  as  though  all  Lille  were 
emptying  itself  southward  in  one  great  stream. 
Fortunately,  I  discovered  a  lone  train  at  the 
station  bound  for  Tournai,  just  across  the  border 
in  Belgium,  and  I  lost  no  time  in  getting  on  board, 


238     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

aided  by  a  young  French  girl  who  picked  an 
acquaintance  with  me  and  quite  seriously  pro- 
posed that  I  take  her  to  the  States.  Such  is  the 
fraternity  of  war-times.  After  a  short  ride,  a 
sixth  sense  which  war  seems  to  develop  showed 
someone  running  off  with  my  precious  bicycle  at  a 
little  way-station.  To  my  surprise  I  found  it  was 
the  Belgium  customs,  one  of  the  last  shreds  of 
Belgian  authority  left.  "I  am  an  American" 
opened  the  country  to  me  with  mystic  rapidity  and 
we  sped  rapidly  on  to  the  danger-line. 

I  have  known  fear  several  times  during  this  war, 
but  never  had  it  been  so  subtle,  so  stifling,  so  all- 
pervading  as  it  was  after  I  had  been  in  the  little 
Belgian  town  of  Tournai  for  an  hour.  It  seemed 
as  though  the  whole  population  of  Belgium  had 
been  squeezed  out  from  under  the  merciless  Ger- 
man steam-roller  and  backed  up  into  the  town's 
little  square.  I  had  planned  to  bicycle  on  through 
the  German  lines,  into  Charleroi,  Mons,  Louvain, 
and  Holland,  but  alas  that  I  stopped  !  Yes,  the 
Germans  were  just  outside  ;  ooh-la-la,  anyone  on  a 
bicycle  was  shot  first  and  examined  afterwards  ; 
Uhlans  were  all  over;   and  I  had  Paris  papers  ?  — 


France }s  Calmness  and  Belgium' 's  Agony     239 

they  were  forbidden  on  pain  of  death  —  and  a 
camera  ?  —  oh,  Monsieur,  you  would  not  live  five 
minutes.     I  paused. 

The  little  square  was  choked  with  people. 
Everyone  was  shifting,  moving  nervously  about, 
casting  apprehensive  glances  towards  the  East,  as 
though  from  that  quarter  some  fearful  ogre  might 
spring.  Wild,  unreasoned  terror  electrified  the 
seething  mob.  It  was  in  the  air  ;  it  sprang  from 
person  to  person ;  it  finally  worked  its  way  into 
me  too.  I  glanced  fearfully  in  the  direction  I  had 
planned  to  travel.  My  two  lunch  companions, 
educated  Belgian  refugees,  enlarged  on  stories  of 
children  cut  to  pieces,  women  disembowelled,  a 
whole  village  put  under  the  mitrailleuse  — 

"They're  coming." 

It  rose  up  from  the  mob,  a  great  wail.  A  new 
group  of  refugees  brought  word  that  the  Germans 
were  moving  on  the  town  in  large  numbers.  The 
news  spread  like  wild-fire.  The  ominous  noise  of 
a  terrified  mob  rose  louder  and  louder.  People 
grabbed  up  their  bundles  and  ran  everywhere, 
helter-skelter.  Some  rushed  to  the  open  roads  to 
the   south   and   west;    some  jammed   a   four-car 


240     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

tram  even  to  the  roof;  others  surged  over  to  a 
long  train  waiting  with  steam  up  in  the  station. 

In  a  twinkling  the  town  had  emptied  itself.  The 
square  before  me  was  completely  barren.  My 
two  lunch  companions  had  vanished  into  space; 
only  the  waiter  remained  in  what  had  been  a 
crowded  restaurant.  Except  for  him  I  was  the 
only  living  being  about.  What  to  do  —  I  cer- 
tainly did  not  relish  the  idea  of  being  there  alone 
to  welcome  the  whole  German  army.  And  my 
bicycle,  my  camera,  my  French  newspapers  ? 
Brrrh.  The  blind,  unreasoned,  psychological  effect 
of  mob  fear  surged  over  me  too.  My  only  desire 
was  to  run  —  to  get  away  —  to  escape  that  terrible 
something  in  the  air.  I  too  crowded  my  way  into 
the  station  and  found  room  at  last  only  in  the 
baggage-car.  I  never  wanted  to  see  a  German 
again. 

Slowly  we  hitched  along.  Every  compartment 
was  crowded  to  over-flowing  with  sometimes  as 
many  as  fifteen  people.  Thousands  were  fleeing 
blindly,  not  knowing  whither  or  caring,  except 
that  it  was  away  from  the  scourge  behind.  They 
had  abandoned  everything  but  a  few  large  bundles 


France's  Calmness  and  Belgium' 's  Agony     241 

of  clothes  or  precious  possessions  snatched  up  at 
the  last  minute.  They  had  left  husbands,  wives, 
children,  friends,  whose  fates  their  imaginations 
pictured  in  most  ghastly  detail.  There  indeed 
was  one  of  the  most  agonizing  tragedies  in  all  this 
agony-stricken  land.  Belgium  might  have  been 
divided  into  two  spheres,  a  little  ragged,  ill-trained 
army  hopelessly,  gloriously  brave,  and  a  seething 
homeless  peasantry  crazed  with  a  fear  which 
denied  all  reason.  While  the  soldiers  were  flinging 
themselves  forward  to  certain  death  with  a  smile 
on  their  lips,  the  ignorant,  superstitious  peasants 
were  fleeing,  pell-mell,  vying  with  each  other  in 
ghastly  atrocity  stories  and  drinking  in  with 
avidity  the  most  impossible  reports  of  wholesale 
butchery,  slaughter,  and  devastation.  That  the 
Belgian  army  stood  up  against  this  fearful  panic 
is  an  eternal  tribute  in  itself. 

At  last  we  arrived  at  Ghent,  that  beautiful 
historic  city  where  almost  100  years  ago  England 
and  America  made  peace.  Here  too  it  was  one 
great  molten  stream  of  sad,  despairing  refugees, 
pushed  on  from  all  over  Belgium  by  the  German 
tidal  wave.     A  nervous,  seething  crowd  throbbed 

R 


242     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

about  the  big  square  before  the  station,  now  rush- 
ing to  one  side  to  watch  a  line  of  soldiers  file  by 
and  off  into  the  distance,  now  gaping  vacantly 
at  an  aeroplane  overhead,  but  always  raw  with 
terror  and  premonition.  And  as  I  picked  my  way 
through  this  human  wreckage  to  the  Hotel  de 
Ville,  I  could  not  but  hope  that  the  English  and 
French  flags  which  were  draped  there  on  either  side 
of  the  Belgian  might  bring  rescue  to  this  gallant 
little  people  who  had  dared  to  defend  themselves. 

Just  one  more  atom  as  I  was  in  that  trembling 
mob,  I  made  straight  for  a  big  Stars  and  Stripes 
flying  over  the  American  consulate.  ,  My  first 
acquaintance  there  was  an  American  lecturer, 
who,  I  am  sure,  was  the  only  man  in  Europe  be- 
sides myself  to  be  wearing  a  straw  hat. 

"Late  for  straws,"  I  ventured. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "I  guess  we're  the  last  ones 
left." 

"It's  the  last  thing  I  got  in  Boston." 

"Good  Heavens,"  he  exclaimed.  "That's  where 
mine  came  from,"  and  the  labels  showed  they 
were  bought  within  one  hundred  yards  of  each 
other. 


France'' s  Calmness  and  Belgium's  Agony     243 

"Where  you  been  ?"  I  asked. 

"Nearly  shot  by  the  Germans  for  a  spy,"  he 
replied.     "And  you  ?" 

"Oh,  the  same  thing  by  the  French,"  and 
another  war  friendship  was  on. 

Consul  van  Hee  then  hove  in  sight  and  took  me 
to  another  room.  Like  a  thunderbolt  he  dropped 
me  down  before  two  American  girls  just  as  I  was, 
dressed  in  rags  and  rough-and-tumble  clothing. 
They  were  terribly  —  I  use  the  word  advisedly — 
terribly  pretty  ;  tall,  lithe,  graceful,  with  beautiful 
coloring,  and  each  wearing  a  pink  and  white 
sweater,  a  trig  short  skirt,  and  high  tan  tramping 
boots.  They  were  indeed  types  of  ideal  woman- 
hood, bright,  sparkling,  vivacious. 

"Great  girls,"  said  van  Hee.  "Just  come  from 
Charleroi." 

"Charleroi!"  I  echoed  dazedly.  The  word 
struck  me  cold,  for  at  that  time  Charleroi  was  an 
inferno,  and  all  the  hundred  miles  between  were 
filled  with  men  drunk  with  battle  who  knew  not 
right  nor  chivalry. 

"Yes,"  laughed  one,  "we've  just  come  from 
there." 


244     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

"But,"  I  gasped,  "how  in  Heaven's  name  did 
you  do  it  ?" 

"Oh,"  she  replied,  "we  walked.  You  see  we'd 
been  there  eight  weeks  in  the  Red  Cross  and 
couldn't  stand  the  strain  any  longer.  We  left 
Paris  the  minute  war  broke  out  and  joined  the 
Red  Cross  at  Charleroi.  First  came  the  Belgian 
soldiers,  then  the  French,  then  the  English,  then 
the  bombardment.  For  three  days  they  fought 
about  the  city  while  we  lived  underground.  Then 
the  Germans  fought  their  way  in  —  there  were 
hours  of  street  fighting  —  and  finally  they  got  con- 
trol. There  was  nothing  we  could  do  but  stay ; 
the  wounded  and  dying  were  being  poured  in  by 
hundreds ;  and  we  were  the  only  trained  nurses  in 
the  city.  No  time  for  rest  or  sleep,  always  the 
same  awful  work,  always  on  duty.  After  eight 
weeks  we  broke  down.  Finally  we  told  the  Ger- 
mans we  simply  must  get  away.  They  didn't  pre- 
vent us,  but  they  wouldn't  do  one  thing  to  help  us. 
They  really  did  need  us.  We  decided  to  go  anyway. 
We  packed  a  few  clothes  in  knapsacks  and  set  out 
on  foot  for  Paris.  Every  now  and  then  we  got  a 
lift,  and  here  we  are,  eight  days  afterwards." 


France *s  Calmness  and  Belgium'' s  Agony     245 

That  indeed  is  the  American  girl.  For  two 
months  they  had  borne  the  strain  of  nursing  while 
the  battle  had  raged  round  them.  Then  they  had 
set  resolutely  out  on  foot,  undaunted  by  the  150 
miles  to  Paris,  the  crowds  of  war-drunk  soldiers 
on  their  route.  'Tis  an  unsung  bravery  indeed 
that  carried  these  young  and  tempting  women 
through. 

Mr.  van  Hee  was  so  interested  that  he  offered 
his  automobile  for  a  trip  to  Antwerp.  Probably 
in  no  other  way  could  we  have  entered  that 
beleaguered  city.  Though  none  of  us  had  passes 
the  machine  bore  two  large  American  flags  and  was 
widely  known  as  the  one  thing  other  than  bullets 
and  shells  which  passed  between  the  Belgian  and 
German  lines.  Every  few  minutes  along  the  rough, 
cobbled  way  we  were  held  up  by  suspicious  sen- 
tries with  guns  lowered  and  fingers  on  the  trigger. 
Each  time  our  chauffeur  leaned  out,  motioned  to 
the  sentry,  and  whispered  in  his  ear  the  one  word  : 

"Mons." 

That  was  all ;  there  was  no  scrutiny,  no  exam- 
ination ;    that  one  word  was  the  Open  Sesame  to 


246     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

the  great  city  of  Antwerp.  Surely  it  was  more 
mediaeval  than  modern  —  made  me  think,  too, 
more  of  the  absurd  college  fraternity  than  war. 
It  was  amusing  to  see  that  one  word  metamorphose 
the  determined  scowling  face  of  a  heavily  armed 
sentry  into  a  broad  smile  with  ejaculations  of 
"Bon,  bon,  bon." 

Miles  and  miles  we  went,  past  soldiers  lounging 
about  or  cavalry  all  mounted  for  action,  past 
trains  of  rapid-fire  guns  and  supplies ;  past 
tangled  networks  of  barbed  wire,  fields  of  sharp- 
pointed  stakes,  and  little  woods  cut  down  so  that 
bullets  but  not  horses  might  pass,  embankments 
and  subterranean  shelters.  Nature  the  whole 
length  of  the  road  to  Antwerp  had  been  perverted 
to  the  work  of  annihilation.  Truly  the  traps 
which  man  sets  for  man  are  heinous. 

Ah,  Antwerp,  thou  fair  city,  as  your  graceful 
spires  came  into  view  over  the  little  harbor,  what 
a  prayer  welled  up  within  us  that  you  at  least  might 
rest  unsullied  from  the  invincible  conqueror  who 
has  devastated  all  your  peaceful  country.  There, 
within  your  gates,  you  held  the  last  of  Belgium, 
King,  government,  army,  and  all,  backed  up  in 


France' 's  Calmness  and  Belgium's  Agony     247 

the  last  and  greatest  stronghold  after  a  struggle 
which  will  ring  gloriously  down  through  the  pages 
of  history.  All  that  there  was,  all  that  there  is  of 
Belgium,  was  in  your  keeping.  As  we  rattled 
across  a  rough  pontoon  bridge  over  the  Scheldt, 
our  hearts  were  indeed  fast  with  you  in  your  hour 
of  trial. 

Strange  indeed  it  was  how  Antwerp  kept  its 
natural  expression,  even  in  these  most  dire  hours. 
The  inexorable  German  army  was  even  then 
pounding  at  the  inner  forts ;  the  eastern  suburbs 
were  closed  by  the  bombardment,  and  yet  there 
were  but  few  signs  of  the  intensity  of  the  combat 
near  by.  Soldiers  were  strolling  all  about ;  Red 
Cross  officials  were  moving  busily  around ;  mili- 
tary machines  honked  their  way  through  rather 
crowded  streets  to  the  outposts  ;  many  stores  were 
closed  ;  the  lights  were  out  at  8  o'clock ;  but  even 
at  that  there  was  at  first  nothing  striking  in  the 
atmosphere.  Only  slowly  did  the  grim  spectre 
which  lay  behind  become  evident.  Above  all  was 
a  calmness  almost  of  fatality  which  awoke  in  one 
a  peculiar  combination  of  premonition  and  acute 
grief.     Everyone  seemed  grim  and  determined,  as 


248     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

though  the  sufferings  of  recent  weeks  had  steeled 
them  to  meet  the  future's  worst.  How  bitterly 
affairs  were  going  at  the  front  was  concealed  from 
everyone,  even  newspapermen,  and  the  thought 
that  the  city  would  be  in  German  hands  within  a 
week  was  never  entertained.  So  self-controlled 
did  Antwerp  seem  that  we  decided  to  run  back 
to  Ghent  to  get  back  to  the  front  from  that  direc- 
tion. Little  did  we  dream  that  the  Cathedral  we 
admired  so  that  night  would  see  Zeppelins  sail- 
ing about  it  and  shells  bursting  around  it  only 
seventy-two  hours  later. 

'Twas  midnight  when  again  we  saw  the  graceful 
spires  and  the  rough  pontoon  bridge  on  our  way 
back  to  Ghent.  Behind  us  Antwerp  lay  calm  and 
still  in  the  moonlight.  All  lights  were  out,  lest 
any  prowling  Zeppelin  get  in  its  dastardly  work. 
'Twas  an  eerie  sight  and  sad,  for  truly  it  seemed 
that  no  life  moved  within.  'Twas  an  eerie  ride, 
too,  which  was  to  come.  Our  route  lay  through 
a  dim,  bluish  moonlight,  through  long  miles  of 
dying  camp-fires,  where  heavily  blanketed  men 
moved  ghost-like  about,  trenches,  barbed  wires, 
and   occasional    neighing   horses.     Every   quarter 


France's  Calmness  and  Belgium's  Agony     249 

mile  or  so,  in  spectral,  uncanny  way,  a  red  lantern 
moved  out  into  the  road  and  a  heavily  armed 
sentry  with  shining  rifle-barrel  peered  suspiciously 
through  the  semi-darkness.  Again  the  magic 
word  "Mons"  passed  us  through  with  smiles  and 
whispered  ejaculations.  Engraven  on  my  memory 
for  all  time  is  the  picture  of  that  weak  bluish 
light  cast  by  a  shimmering  moon  on  cleared  fields, 
trenches,  entanglements,  and  the  spectral  figures 
of  men  with  the  back-ground  of  a  city  in  its  last 
stand  for  freedom. 


XII 
BELGIUM'S   HOPELESS  HEROISM 

The  next  day  was  in  ways  the  most  surprising 
of  the  many  surprising  days  I  had  spent  in  Eu- 
rope. I  still  retained  vivid  memories  of  my  war 
correspondent's  experiences  in  France,  of  my 
being  dragged  about  handcuffed,  cooped  up  in 
jails,  left  to  sleep  in  horse-stalls,  on  bare  floors, 
in  the  open  air,  and  otherwise  convinced  of  my 
unpopularity.  Indeed,  I  had  been  cured  of  any 
idea  that  correspondents  were  men,  or  to  be 
treated  in  any  way  as  human  beings.  Conse- 
quently, when  some  English  correspondents, 
whom  I  had  picked  up  at  Ghent,  invited  me  to 
go  to  the  front  in  their  automobile,  to  take  a 
sightseeing  tour,  as  it  were,  for  the  small  sum  of 
#5,  it  seemed  as  though  I  were  in  a  dream.  Cer- 
tainly we  would  be  shot  for  our  presumption. 

Still,  I  accepted.  To  my  surprise  they  pro- 
duced a  real  automobile.  I  blundered  in  be- 
wildered.     Even   now   as    I   write    I    can    hardly 

250 


Belgium? 's  Hopeless  Heroism  251 

believe  what  I  say.  We  left  Ghent ;  we  passed 
guard  after  guard ;  we  stopped ;  we  took  pic- 
tures ;  we  rode  wherever  we  wished ;  we  did 
whatever  we  desired.  We  set  off  in  one  direc- 
tion because  we  thought  we  could  locate  a  battle 
there ;  we  changed  our  course  several  times  on 
getting  advice  nearer  the  front.  In  all  grim 
reality,  we  were  hunting  a  battle  as  though  it 
were  a  spectacle. 

All  the  way  it  was  a  beautiful  lowland,  the 
rich,  verdant  lowland  of  Belgium,  cut  by  regular 
lines  of  slim-trunked,  high-tufted  poplars  and 
peaceful  with  the  spell  of  the  first  breath  of 
early  fall.  All  the  way,  too,  there  were  marching 
men,  swift-moving  cavalry,  long  trains  of  artil- 
lery and  convoys,  with  always  the  distant  grumble 
of  battle  humming  like  a  dull  background.  We 
had  absolutely  no  idea  where  we  were.  Modern 
battles  cover  so  much  territory  and  are  so  in- 
definite in  line  that  you  can  chase  one  all  day 
and  then  not  recognize  it  when  you  come  upon 
it. 

Suddenly,  however,  we  came  full  upon  four 
little   field   guns   just   swinging   into   action   in   a 


252     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

cabbage-field.      The    Pathe    Freres    movie    man 
jumped  out. 

"Howdy-do,  Captain  ?"  he  said  in  English  to  a 
Belgian  officer  whom  he  recognized.  "Starting 
something  ?" 

"Yes,  you're  just  in  time." 

"Wait  a  minute  then,  till  we  get  ready." 

And  the  order  to  fire  was  held  up  till  the  pho- 
tographers had  distributed  themselves  in  strategic 
positions.  That  indeed  was  too  much  for  me  — 
I  had  to  rub  my  eyes  to  see  if  I  were  really  awake. 
If  this  had  been  France,  we  would  by  now  have 
had  guards  with  fixed  bayonets  behind  us  and 
a  wild-looking  official  in  front  of  us.  Instead, 
the  movie  man  turned  to  the  Captain  informally, 
and  said  : 

"All  ready,  Captain." 

"Fire!"  rang  out  the  order  in  whatever  the 
French  of  it  is. 

Four  terrific  crashes,  four  fiery  flashes  at  the 
gun  muzzles,  four  wisps  of  smoke,  four  barrels 
kicked  violently  back  in  recoil,  four  empty  shells 
thrown  out  hot  and  smoking,  four  new  shells  slid 
into  the   breeches  —  and   four   more   shells   were 


Belgium? s  Hopeless  Heroism  253 

off  to  the  German  trenches  miles  away.  Round 
followed  round,  dully,  mechanically,  unemotion- 
ally. About  the  guns  were  small  squads  of  men, 
dull,  mechanical,  unemotional.  It  might  have 
been  drill ;  it  surely  did  not  seem  real  war.  There 
was  no  lust  of  battle,  no  flush  of  strife.  Blindly 
the  gunners  had  set  the  machines  to  scientific 
calculations,  which  they  did  not  understand ; 
equally  blindly  they  loaded  and  reloaded  against 
an  enemy  they  had  perhaps  never  seen.  Probably 
no  man  there,  except  the  Captain,  knew  what 
success  they  were  having.  Several  miles  away 
men  were  falling  under  the  fleecy  white  puffs  which 
followed  every  crash  from  the  guns  before  us. 

It  was  a  poor  game  after  all.  So  far  as  we  could 
see,  all  they  were  aiming  at  was  a  row  of  poplars 
100  yards  ahead.  Through  that  first  line  was 
a  meadow ;  beyond  that  a  second  line  —  that 
was  all,  except  for  one's  imagination.  Truly 
it  was  wearisome,  that  constant  loading  and  re- 
loading, much  as  the  din  of  the  old  Fourth  of 
July  becomes  wearisome  before  the  day  is  hardly 
on.  We  were  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
smoking  and  discussing  the  futility  of  it  when  — 


254     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

Zz-z-z-z-z-z,  a  horrible,  screeching,  tearing, 
smashing  sound  slashed  its  way  through  the 
atmosphere  overhead  in  a  siren  crescendo  which 
crashed  in  a  scattering  explosion  behind  us.  It 
might  have  been  a  giant  express  train  catapult- 
ing through  the  atmosphere  at  stupendous  speed, 
except  that  the  high-pitched,  vibrant  noise  of 
its  passage  was  too  entirely  supernatural.  It 
was  so  ugly,  so  vicious,  so  vindictive,  that  it 
seemed  rather  the  death  scream  of  some  terrible 
fiend. 

I  was  too  stunned  by  its  suddenness  and  its 
horror  to  move  from  the  spot  where  I  had  been 
idly  smoking.  I  half  expected  the  heavens  to 
come  clattering  down  on  us  through  the  rent 
overhead. 

"Hullo,"  said  the  Captain,  putting  his  head 
out  of  a  hut  where  he  had  taken  shelter.  "There 
are  the  Germans  saying  good  morning." 

"Yes,"  I  stammered,  "and  I  don't  intend  to 
stay  till  they  say  good  night." 

"Don't  worry,"  he  replied.  "It's  not  the  ones 
you  hear  that  do  the  harm.  They're  too  far 
past.     It's  the  ones  you  don't  hear.' 


>» 


Belgium? 's  Hopeless  Heroism  255 

Thereupon  I  was  obsessed  with  a  desire  to  hear 
shells.  Quicker  than  scat  we  had  turned  our 
automobile  round  and  were  making  off  fast  down 
the  road,  leaving  our  little  battery  at  its  work, 
with  the  pretty  certain  knowledge  that  the  next 
shell  would  strike  nearer  home.  For  some  time  we 
drove  along  in  the  lee  of  a  twelve-foot  embank- 
ment flanking  the  river  Nethe,  almost  lost  as  to 
the  location  of  the  battle.  Above  it  rose  a  tre- 
mendous dense  cloud  of  coal-black  smoke  pouring 
up  in  billows  from  a  large  gasoline  storage  tank 
which  had  been  fired  by  Belgian  artillery  as  soon 
as  the  German  forces  had  come  up  to  it. 

Shortly  we  were  stopped  by  sentries.  How 
natural  it  seemed  !  This  idea  of  war  correspond- 
ents running  around  in  automobiles,  chasing 
battles,  with  artillery  captains  holding  their  fire 
till  the  cameras  were  ready,  was  wearing  on  my 
nerves.  But  no,  it  was  only  to  say  that  while 
we  might  go  on  if  we  wished,  it  would  not  be 
wise  to  do  so.  The  Germans  were  for  some  strange 
reason  bombarding  the  little  town  of  Grambur- 
gen  to  powder,  although  the  sentry  assured  us 
that  not  a  solitary  inhabitant,  except  possibly  a 


256     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

few  cats,  remained.  They  were  big  guns  that 
were  at  work,  too.  I  timed  several  of  those 
screeching  monsters,  catching  one  at  ten  seconds 
and  another  at  thirteen  from  the  time  its  siren 
first  began  till  the  final  crash.  Think  of  it,  thir- 
teen seconds  of  hurtling  death  ! 

Suddenly  I  conceived  the  brilliant  idea  of  climb- 
ing the  embankment  of  the  Nethe  to  see  what  was 
on  the  other  side.  Pandemonium  burst  out 
among  the  sentries ;  several  of  them  rushed  for 
me;  I  found  myself  in  the  middle  of  the  road 
with  the  whole  group  gesticulating  about  me. 
The  purport  of  it  all  was  that  the  Germans  were 
only  seventy-five  yards  beyond ;  that  a  head 
over  the  top  of  the  embankment  would  have 
been  a  target  for  one  hundred  guns ;  that  the 
Teutons  almost  took  another  American's  life. 
Such  is  the  difficulty  of  locating  "the  front" 
nowadays. 

Anyway,  I  did  not  climb  the  embankment,  nor 
did  we  go  farther  down  the  road.  Instead  we 
returned  to  the  white,  characterless  town  of  Zele, 
where  by  good  fortune  was  what  purported  to 
be  an  inn.     It  was  just  about  far  enough  behind 


it 


Belgium's  Hopeless  Heroism  257 

the  lines  for  men  to  shake  themselves  free  from 
the  horror  of  battle  and  see  its  real  significance. 
I  was  sitting  in  a  small  parlor  when  a  sous-officer, 
gray  with  mud  and  startlingly  pallid,  entered  the 
room  and  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"Pardon,  Monsieur,"  he  said  to  me.  "May  I 
rest  here  a  moment  ?" 

Certainly,"  I  answered;   and  after   a   pause, 
It's  pretty  rough  outside  to-day,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Mon  Dieu,  it's  terrible,"  he  replied.  "Those 
Germans,  ah  — " 

He  shuddered,  and  then  looked  resentfully  at 
the  small  grimy  window  and  its  large  heavy 
curtains.     Suddenly  he  burst  out : 

"That  noise,  always  that  noise  —  even  in  this 
quiet  little  room.  They  pound  night  and  day, 
night  and  day  till  it  seems  as  though  I'd  go  crazy. 
Can't  I  ever  get  away  from  it  —  can't  I  ever 
get  where  I  won't  hear  those  guns  again  ?" 

"You're  just  back?"  I  ventured. 

"Yes,"  he  replied  wistfully,  "and  I  almost 
wish  I  weren't,  almost  wish  I'd  stayed  out  there 
with  Jacques.  Jacques  was  my  best  friend, 
Monsieur,  —  he  is  dead  now  —  yet  I  wonder  if 

s 


258     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

he  isn't  better  off  ?  At  least  he  won't  always 
have  to  remember." 

His  head  fell  into  his  hands.  It  seemed  during 
a  long  silence  as  though  he  were  sobbing,  then 
he  murmured  : 

"Ah,  Monsieur,  what  a  ghastly  thing  war  is ! 
How  brutal !  What  things  it  makes  us  do  !  Two 
days  ago  I  was  happy  —  now  I  can  think  of  noth- 
ing but  Jacques,  hear  nothing  but  that  roar. 

"You  see  it  was  night  before  last  at  midnight 
that  they  got  us  out  to  dig  a  trench.  There  was 
Jacques,  who  had  been  my  best  friend  for  years, 
myself,  and  about  120  others.  We  worked  with 
terrific  speed,  for  we  only  had  a  few  hours  before 
dawn.  <  ' 

"  Before  we  were  half  done  it  began  to  get  gray. 
Suddenly  there  was  an  awful  crash.  Then  the 
hellish  jip-jip-jip  of  a  machine  gun.  We  all 
dropped  where  we  stood  in  the  half-dug  trenches, 

—  Jacques  and  I  were  together  —  and  in  a 
second  we  saw  the  Germans  had  caught  us  from 
both  ends.     There  wasn't  anything  we  could  do 

—  to  have  tried  to  run  would  have  been  sure 
death  —  so  we  squashed  down  into  the  half-dug 


Belgium' 's  Hopeless  Heroism  259 

holes.  I  remember  digging  with  my  hands  — 
burrowing  like  a  mole  to  get  myself  underground 
and  away  from  that  ghastly  fire.  Any  way  I 
lay  part  of  me  was  exposed,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  any  second  might  be  my  last.  Hours 
and  hours  those  guns  kept  going. 

"Suddenly  there  was  a  little  gasp  beside  me. 
Jacques  crumpled  all  in,  limp  and  strengthless. 
I  spoke  —  then  I  turned  up  his  face.  Ah,  Mon- 
sieur, it  was  the  look  I  had  learned  too  well 
recently,  —  and  yet  to  have  it  come  to  Jacques 
—  mon  Dieu,  it  was  too  much. 

"And  the  Germans  kept  right  on  with  that 
hellish  noise.  It  seemed  as  though  they  might 
have  let  up  for  a  few  minutes  —  it  would  have 
been  a  little  thing  to  have  done  —  and  I  thought 
I'd  go  wild  with  fury  that  they  didn't.  I  started 
burrowing  again  —  I  thought  I'd  never  get  away 
from  it.  Then  my  eye  fell  on  poor  Jacques  — 
no,  I  couldn't  do  it  —  it  was  too  much  —  and  yet 
why  not  —  it  meant  no  harm  to  him  now,  poor 
lad,  and  I  knew  he'd  want  me  to. 

"Monsieur,"  he  continued  almost  in  a  whisper, 
"I    pulled   Jacques    up    carefully   from   the    hole 


260     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

he'd  been  in  and  doubled  him  up  between  me  and 
the  Germans.  He'd  done  me  many  a  good  turn 
in  life,  yet  how,  I've  asked  myself  ever  since, 
could  I  have  asked  this  of  him  in  death  ?" 

His  voice  broke,  then  — 

"Heaven  knows  how  long  we  lay  there,  Jacques 
and  I  —  it  seemed  years.  Several  times  there 
was  a  thud  against  the  cold  body  beside  me  and 
each  time  I  thought  I'd  go  crazy.  If  only  I 
could  jump  into  the  air,  dance  feverishly  about, 
and  then  crash  into  that  machine  gun  with  poor 
Jacques. 

"Then  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  came 
the  order  to  retreat,  twelve  hours  afterwards. 
Somehow  they'd  got  the  Germans  out  and  we 
had  a  few  minutes'  chance.  I  moved  Jacques 
back  and  fixed  him  as  well  as  I  could.  Then 
we  ran  —  and  when  we  united  in  the  little  wood 
some  way  behind,  there  were  only  twenty-two  of 
the  one  hundred  and  twenty  left. 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu,  to  think  of  those  twelve  hours 
—  and  of  what  I  did  to  Jacques.  I  wonder  if 
it's  true  —  certainly  it  isn't  possible  I  could 
have  profaned  him  in  that  way.     Yet  I  know  it 


Belgium* s  Hopeless  Heroism  261 

is  —  I  did  it  —  I  know  I  did  it  —  can  I  never 
forget?" 

It  was  enough  to  make  one's  heart  bleed,  that 
shaking,  dust-covered  head  and  shoulders  and 
the  grim  silence  broken  only  by  quick  breathing 
and  the  ever  present  rumble  of  the  guns.  I 
could  not  but  feel  that  here  was  another  of  those 
several  million  men  who  have  experienced  psy- 
chological and  spiritual  shocks  in  this  war  which 
would  have  made  it  far  better  if  they,  too,  could 
have  fallen  as  Jacques  fell  on  the  spot  where  they 
received  their  fatal  wounds.  How  much,  I  won- 
dered, will  Europe  be  retarded  when  all  these 
men  return  home  to  live  in  mental  anguish  and 
to  cause  it,  to  continue  on  as  mental  derelicts, 
and  to  pass  on  their  sufferings  to  those  about 
them  and  their  children  ?  Such  is  the  poison  of 
war. 

Glad  indeed  I  was  when  it  came  time  for 
luncheon.  About  the  big  table  were  nine  Belgian 
officers,  men  who  exemplified  a  bravery  so  help- 
less, so  tragic  as  to  make  one  almost  cry  in  pain. 
During  a  pause  I  asked  : 

"Do  you  think  the  Germans  will  take  Antwerp  ?" 


262     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

A  stillness  fell.  Then  slowly  one  of  them  re- 
plied : 

"Monsieur,  the  Germans  get  anything  they 
want." 

Not  an  officer  protested ;  not  a  man  spoke. 
A  pin  could  have  been  heard  falling.  The  silence 
was  sacred.  Shortly  the  officer  lifted  his  eyes, 
and,  racked  with  emotion,  said  : 

"But,  by  God,  it  will  cost  them  dear." 

Such  was  the  spirit  of  the  Belgian  army.  Such 
was  the  knowledge  of  its  men  on  the  firing-line, 
who  still  fought  like  tigers,  even  when  they  knew 
how  hollow  was  the  world's  belief  that  Antwerp 
was  impregnable.  The  height  of  utter  self- 
sacrifice  shown  in  those  few  words  dulled  the 
rest  of  luncheon  till  all  of  us  were  glad  of  its 
completion. 

Even  yet  I  felt  odd  at  being  at  large.  It 
seemed  I  ought,  instead  of  dining  with  officers, 
to  have  been  munching  war  bread  in  a  horse-stall 
with  sentries  glowering  in  at  the  windows.  The 
climax,  however,  was  now  to  come.  Two  officers 
asked  if  I  wouldn't  like  to  see  the  country.  We 
entered  a  church,  climbed  up    and  up  the  cold 


Belgium? 's  Hopeless  Heroism  263 

stone  stairway  of  the  steeple,  up  the  wooden  lad- 
der of  the  upper  belfry,  to  stand  finally  at  the  very 
apex.  Belgium  lay  before  me,  a  rich,  smiling, 
checkerboard  country,  the  Scheldt  wandering  in 
the  foreground,  two  burning  villages  beyond,  and 
Antwerp  far  on  the  sky-line.  And  beside  me 
were  two  men  who  did  not  think  me  a  spy,  two 
men  who  trusted  me  so  fully  as  to  give  me  their 
field-glasses,  in  order  to  see  the  better.  Could 
this,  I  wondered,  be  war  ?  Yes,  emphatically 
yes,  when  a  hubbub  in  the  street  below  called  us 
down  lest  we  attract  the  German  shells  to  the 
tower. 

That  afternoon  for  the  first  time  I  saw  joy  in 
stricken  Belgium.  It  was  when  we  entered  an 
ill-kempt,  drear  little  village  right  in  the  heart 
of  the  fighting-zone.  There  was  every  reason  for 
despondency,  Heaven  knows,  for  German  shells 
and  German  soldiers  might  come  at  any  moment. 
And  yet  there  were  hundreds  of  people  about. 
The  streets  were  crowded.  Everyone  was 
laughing,  smiling,  talking.  People  who  for  days 
had  huddled  panic-stricken  in  their  homes,  who 
had  thought   of   nothing  but   blood,   rapine,  and 


264     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

death,  came  forth  from  hiding-places  as  if  to  face 
the  sunrise  of  a  new  day ;  faces  which  for  weeks 
had  shown  naught  but  anguish  and  misery  were 
lit  up  with  a  happiness  which  fairly  spiritualized 
the  whole  motley  unkempt  crowd.  Positively  it 
was  uncanny. 

We  honked  our  way  through  the  crowd  who 
cheered  enthusiastically  at  the  Union  Jack  on 
our  radiator.  The  little  square  in  the  centre  of 
the  village  was  jammed  solid.  We  got  out  of 
the  machine  and  forced  our  way  in  among  the 
people.  Ah,  Tommies  !  English  armored  motor- 
cars !  Heaven  be  praised !  Great  Britain  had 
come  back  to  Belgium !  How  big,  how  cheerful, 
how  inspiring  those  few  khaki  uniforms  looked  ! 
What  a  warmth  and  radiance  glowed  over  the 
whole  scene  ! 

Positively  we  thrilled  till  the  tears  almost  came 
to  our  eyes.  Little  Belgium,  smashed  and 
crushed  into  its  last  stronghold,  alone  against  an 
overwhelming  enemy,  might  now  see  rising  be- 
hind it  the  might  and  power  of  the  British  Empire. 
The  bleeding  Belgian  army  could  once  more 
struggle  to  its  feet  and  acclaim  itself  a  fighting 


Belgium'' s  Hopeless  Heroism  265 

force.  The  utter  desperation  which  had  settled 
upon  Belgium  when  the  British  and  French  had 
fled  precipitately  from  Mons  and  Charleroi  was 
now  at  least  lightened.  It  was  not  the  actual 
force  of  the  five  Rolls-Royce  mitrailleuse  ma- 
chines before  us ;  it  was  the  power  for  which  they 
stood.  Nor  did  the  Belgians  mistake  this  fact, 
not  even  the  pretty  Belgian  maidens  who  brought 
out  tea  to  their  strange  phlegmatic  guests.  And 
whatever  be  said  of  Churchill's  9000  marines, 
let  it  ever  be  remembered  that  50,000  Belgian 
soldiers  retreated  out  of  Antwerp  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  their  struggle  was  not  a  lone  one. 

It  was  dark  when  we  got  back  to  Ghent  that 
night,  but  the  atmosphere  we  found  there  was  even 
darker.  Waelheim  and  Catherine  St.  Woevre 
were  crumbling  before  the  German  attacks.  The 
fall  of  Antwerp  was  being  spoken  of  as  a  real 
possibility.  All  next  day,  even  as  British  marines 
rushed  through  Ghent  and  British  aeroplanes  flew 
overhead,  the  exodus  was  beginning.  The  roads 
were  filled  with  refugees  fleeing  wildly  before  the 
German  avalanche.  Parts  of  the  army  passed 
through  Ghent,  on  foot,  in  automobiles,  by  train. 


266     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

The  last  chapter  in  a  heroic  fight  was  being 
written.  To  my  eternal  regret  I  did  not  realize 
it  at  the  time.  There  were  signs,  all  sorts  of 
signs,  but  none  of  them  conclusive.  All  the 
correspondents,  too,  who  had  been  there  since 
the  war  started,  assured  me  Antwerp  could  not 
fall  inside  months.  Just  at  that  time  I  fell  sick 
of  a  sharp  fever.  The  horror  of  it  all,  the  constant 
suspicion,  the  danger,  the  longing  for  home  and 
friends,  surged  over  me.  My  work  seemed  done ; 
it  would  not  be  right  to  spend  weeks  on  the  chance 
of  seeing  Antwerp  fall. 

The  next  day  I  joined  the  army  of  refugees 
flowing  through  Ghent  to  the  coast.  After  hours 
of  discomfort  on  a  cattle-pen  train,  crammed  with 
home-sick,  grief-stricken,  countryless  people, 
with  troop  trains  rushing  alongside  and  a  pro- 
cession of  aeroplanes  overhead  we  arrived  at 
Ostend,  —  Ostend,  once  the  fashionable,  now  the 
anguishing.  Still  another  tragedy  of  all  Bel- 
gium's insufferable  tragedies  swept  over  me  here. 

I  was  standing  before  the  ugly  rent  made  in  a 
parkway  by  a  German  bomb,  talking  with  a 
cultured    Belgian    whose    roof    had    been    burned 


Belgium's  Hopeless  Heroism  267 

over  his  head  up-country,  and  who  had  lost 
wife,  children,  and  friends. 

"Ah,  God,  if  this  were  all  the  Germans  had 
done,"  he  said.  "If  it  were  only  physical  de- 
struction —  but,  Monsieur,  it  is  that  deeper 
thing,  that  seering  of  our  national  soul,  that  is 
the  worst  curse  they  have  brought  us.  You 
know,  of  course,  of  the  numbers  of  Germans  liv- 
ing in  Belgium  —  of  how  we've  taken  them  into 
our  homes,  our  confidence,  our  government,  and 
treated  them  exactly  as  if  they  were  of  our  very 
own  family.  You  find  them  in  high  positions  in 
the  army,  in  the  cabinet,  in  business,  everywhere. 
And  you  know  how  they  betrayed  us  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  war  ?" 

"Not  wholly,"  I  answered. 

"Well,"  he  went  on,  "you  remember  how  after 
the  murder  of  the  Arch-duke  all  Europe  began  to 
arm  itself  for  the  inevitable  struggle.  King 
Albert  saw  the  writing  on  the  wall  and  he  begged 
his  ministers  to  get  the  country  ready.  But  the 
Germanophiles  in  the  government  stood  out  against 
him.  He  pleaded,  he  argued,  he  reasoned,  but 
to  it  all  they  answered,  'There's   nothing  to  it.' 


268     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

So  Belgium  drifted  on  —  the  king  powerless 
against  those  who  did  not  want  to  see.  Even  as 
ultimatums  flashed  back  and  forth,  as  mobili- 
zation orders  followed  in  rapid  succession,  he  could 
not  get  action. 

"Then  came  a  letter  to  the  Queen.  She's  a 
daughter  to  the  King  of  Bavaria,  you  know,  and 
was  told  by  her  father  that  it  was  urgent  she  leave 
Belgium  at  once.  No  reason  was  given  —  nor  was 
one  necessary.  It  was  a  terrible  situation  for 
her  —  her  father  and  land  of  birth  on  one  side  — 
her  king  and  husband  on  the  other.  She  chose 
the  latter  and  gave  her  father's  letter  to  the  king. 

"He  at  once  issued  hurry  orders  for  an  emer- 
gency meeting  of  the  ministry.  Almost  sobbing 
with  anguish  he  read  them  the  letter.  A  hush 
fell  upon  those  who  had  not  heeded  him,  and  in 
the  stillness,  the  king  said:  'Gentlemen,  for 
God's  sake  give  me  action.'  It  could  no  longer 
be  delayed ;  the  damage  was  done ;  the  ministry 
concurred.  Orders  flew  back  and  forth,  but  alas 
too  late.  The  Germans  and  German  sympathizers 
in  the  government  had  held  them  up  just  long 
enough.     When   the   German   army   entered   the 


Belgium's  Hopeless  Heroism  269 

country  a  few  days  later,  they  found  it  unpre- 
pared ;  they  found  the  way  blazed  out  for  them 
by  their  own  agents ;  they  found  their  success 
assured  by  the  men  who  had  won  Belgium's  con- 
fidence only  to  betray  it." 

Another  time  I  talked  with  an  artillery  officer 
who  had  been  fought  back  inch  by  inch  all  the 
way  from  Liege  through  Namur  and  Charleroi 
to  Antwerp. 

"Namur?"  he  asked  with  downcast  face. 
"Oh,  I  can't  talk  about  it.  It's  too  terrible,  too 
unbelievable.  I  was  there  —  God  knows  how  I 
got  away  —  God  grant  I  may  forget  about  it. 
You  wonder  that  it  stood  out  only  four  days  ? 
I  only  thank  God  it  wasn't  worse. 

"There  are  a  whole  lot  of  German  officers  in 
our  army,  and  some  of  them  in  high  places. 
There  was  one  fort  at  Namur  —  it  was  the  key 
position  —  and  if  it  fell,  the  whole  thing  would 
go.  The  Germans  had  taken  positions  around  it 
and  had  hammered  it  pretty  hard,  when  one  day 
a  big  gray  automobile  drove  up  under  a  flag  of 
truce.  Pretty  soon  the  officer  in  command  of  the 
fort  went  out  to  it  with  his  staff.     To  everyone's 


270     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

horror  he  shook  hands  with  the  German  officers 
inside,  and  then  got  into  the  machine  with  them. 
Turning  to  his  staff,  he  said  : 

'"Gentlemen,  you  are  all  prisoners  of  war.  This 
position  with  its  garrison  has  been  surrendered,' 
and  the  machine  bore  him  off. 

"The  staff,"  my  friend  continued,  "rushed  back 
to  the  fort.  They  tried  to  telephone  headquarters, 
but  all  the  telephone  wires  had  been  cut.  They 
tried  to  organize  resistance,  only  to  find  that  the 
exhaustion  of  their  munitions  had  been  concealed 
from  them.  Then  they  found  a  note  saying  that 
the  Germans  had  been  allowed  to  take  command- 
ing positions  on  three  sides.  The  fight  was  made 
hopeless  for  them,  but  not  a  man  would  surrender. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  for  as  many  as  could 
to  hack  a  way  through.  Only  a  very  small  rem- 
nant of  that  garrison  lived  to  tell  of  it." 

These  were  the  same  stories  I  had  heard  all 
through  Belgium  —  betrayal,  espionage,  corrup- 
tion, treason.  Heaven  knows  if  they  were  true, 
the  important  thing  was  that  on  everyone's  lips 
were  rumors  of  betrayal  by  German  residents  and 
agents ;     rumors   of   treason   by   German   officers 


Belgium? 's  Hopeless  Heroism  271 

in  Belgian  service ;  rumors  of  bribery  and  intim- 
idation of  Belgian  peasantry.  There  was  no 
tragedy  more  awesome  than  this  anguish  of 
national  soul  and  spirit ;  no  horror  more  horrible 
than  this  unsuspected  cancer  within.  That  the 
Belgian  army  stood  up  against  it,  stood  up  against 
civilian  panic,  stood  up  against  hopeless  odds  and 
still  smiled,  is  a  tribute  which  makes  a  glorious 
struggle  doubly  glorified. 

It  was  with  heart  almost  bursting  with  grief, 
sympathy,  and  veneration  that  I  went  the  next 
morning  to  the  harbor  front. 

My  boat  was  scheduled  to  sail  at  8,  but  even 
when  I  arrived  at  6.30  there  was  a  stream  of 
refugees  choking  the  long  wharf  and  passageway 
far  into  the  street.  In  the  hour  and  a  half  be- 
fore the  boat  sailed,  I  progressed  halfway  from  the 
end  of  the  line  to  the  gang-plank,  only  to  see  the 
boat  go  out  without  me.  Fortunately,  however, 
a  second  boat  went  out  at  9.  Fully  2000  refugees, 
none  of  them  with  more  than  a  small  bundle  of 
clothing,  jammed  the  little  ship.  A  mysterious 
cannonading  still  wafted  out  to  us  from  blood- 
soaked  Europe  off  Dunkirk ;    a  lane  of  six  British 


272     Roadside  Glimpses  of  the  Great  War 

torpedo  boats  guided  us  to  the  land  of  safety.  All 
about  me  on  the  boat  was  the  quietude  and  solitude 
of  a  deep  anguish.  It  was  indeed  almost  a  fu- 
neral ship  that  I  was  on,  for  it  was  witnessing  the 
burial  of  all  the  hopes  of  those  whose  lives  had 
been  uprooted.  The  cliffs  of  Dover  that  day 
looked  down  not  on  the  joys  of  immigrants  en- 
visaging a  new  land,  but  on  the  pains  and  suffer- 
ings of  those  whose  hearts  clung  only  to  the  old. 

When  we  landed  at  Folkestone,  we  found  that 
the  relentless  German  maw  had  that  day  cast  up 
9000  wrecked  and  shattered  lives  on  England's 
shores. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


'""THE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of  a 
few  of  the  Macmillan  books  on  kindred  subjects 


The  Diplomacy  of  the  Great  War 

By  ARTHUR   BULLARD 

Cloth,  i2tno,  $/.jo 

A  book  which  contributes  to  an  understanding  of  the 
war  by  revealing  something  of  the  diplomatic  negotiations 
that  preceded  it.  The  author  gives  the  history  of  interna- 
tional politics  in  Europe  since  the  Congress  of  Berlin  in 
1878,  and  considers  the  new  ideals  that  have  grown  up 
about  the  function  of  diplomacy  during  the  last  genera- 
tion, so  that  the  reader  is  in  full  possession  of  the  general 
trend  of  diplomatic  development.  There  is  added  a  chap- 
ter of  constructive  suggestions  in  respect  to  the  probable 
diplomatic  settlements  resulting  from  the  war,  and  a  con- 
sideration of  the  relations  between  the  United  States  and 
Europe. 


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Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


The  Aftermath  of  Battle 

By  E.  D.  TOLAND 

With  a  Preface  by  Owen  Wister.     With  16  full-page 

plates 

Cloth,  i2mo,  $1.00 

"  Most  of  the  pages  in  this  book,"  says  Owen  Wister  in 
his  preface,  "  are  like  the  photographs  which  go  with 
them,  torn  fresh  and  hot,  so  to  speak,  from  the  diary  of  a 
young  American  just  as  he  jotted  them  down  day  by  day 
in  the  war  hospitals  of  France."  Of  the  author's  service 
and  of  the  nature  of  his  record  of  it  Mr.  Wister  continues : 
"  In  those  hospitals  ...  he  served  the  wounded  Germans 
and  allies,  he  carried  them  upstairs  and  down,  or  in  from 
the  rain,  he  assisted  at  operations,  he  held  basins,  he  gave 
ether,  he  built  the  kitchen  fire,  he  pumped  the  water,  he 
was  chauffeur,  forager,  commissariat,  he  helped  in  what 
ways  he  could,  as  he  was  ordered  and  also  as  his  own 
intelligence  prompted  in  the  not  infrequent  absence  of 
orders.  He  saw  the  wounded  die,  he  saw  them  get  well, 
and  he  tells  about  them,  their  sufferings,  their  courage, 
their  patience.  ...  As  page  succeeds  page,  written  with- 
out art,  yet  with  the  effect  of  high  art,  with  the  effect,  for 
example,  of  DeFoe's  account  of  the  Plague,  the  reader 
ceases  to  be  looking  at  a  picture  ;  he  is  himself  in  the  pic- 
ture, its  terrific  realities  surround  him  as  if  he  were  walk- 
ing among  them." 

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The  German  Empire  Between 
Two  Wars 

By  ROBERT   H.  FIFE,  JR. 

Professor  of  German  at  Wesleyan  University 

Cloth,  8vo 

This  is  not  a  "  war  book  "  and  yet  one  of  its  several 
interests  undoubtedly  arises  from  the  application  of  the 
matters  which  it  discusses  to  present  events.  The  author 
writes  impartially ;  he  is  not  pro-German  but  treats 
Germany  sympathetically  as  well  as  critically.  In  the 
first  part  of  the  volume  he  considers  the  relations  of 
Germany  with  foreign  powers  from  1871-1914,  after 
which  he  takes  up  internal  politics  during  the  same 
period.  He  then  presents  a  view  of  the  Germany  of 
to-day,  giving  special  attention  to  the  government  of  the 
rapidly  growing  cities,  the  school  systems,  the  church 
and  the  press. 


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A  Short  History  of  Germany 

By  ERNEST   F.  HENDERSON 

New  Edition  in  Two  Volumes.    With  a  New  Preface 
and  Three  New  Chapters 

Cloth,  8vo.     Boxed 

"  In  our  opinion,  for  the  English  reader,  there  is  no 
more  admirable  contribution  to  the  history  of  Germany  as 
a  whole  than  in  these  volumes.  The  excellence  of  its  text 
lies  in  its  apparent  freedom  from  prejudice.  Further- 
more, on  a  thorough  examination  of  original  documents 
and  sources,  we  find  here  the  great  figures  in  German 
history  painted  as  we  must  believe  they  really  were. 
They  have  been  described  by  one  who  brings  to  his  work 
a  signal  freshness,  buoyancy  and  vivacity  crowning  his 
past  labors  as  an  investigator.  Dr.  Henderson's  style  is 
vital  in  the  best  sense." 

It  is  the  Outlook  which  thus  commends  an  earlier  edi- 
tion of  this  standard  work,  a  commendation  which  has 
been  heartily  endorsed  by  all  students  of  history  as  well 
as  by  the  general  public.  To  his  previous  chapters  the 
author  has  now  added  three  new  ones  which  bring  the 
text  down  to  the  period  just  prior  to  the  beginning  of  the 
present  war. 


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